


Always Remember Us (This Way)

by Caleesa, Dreua



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Developing Relationship, Discrimination, Dubious Consent, Emotional Sex, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Fist Fights, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Self Loathing, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Verbal Abuse, life after the Parnassus, life altering injuries, taking care of an injured friend, they are not all right, vivid descriptions of hospitalization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caleesa/pseuds/Caleesa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreua/pseuds/Dreua
Summary: There are times when even the strongest of souls crumble . . .when even the bravest of spirits find themselves crushed under the weight of doubt and misunderstandings . . . .there are times when the light at the end of the tunnel is so bleak, so dim, that hope seems meaningless . . . .
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare), Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. Fight to be with You

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this will be rather dark at times, from the get go we'd like to state that there will be vivid descriptions of hospitalization, blood and traumatic instances that might be questionable for some. We will do our best to state in which chapters these will occur. Meis is NOT okay in this, taking the brunt end of the pods and energy loss . . .  
> This is our take on Gueira and Meis's life after the Parnassus, through their troubles and getting back into establishing some form of normalcy. Angst, feels, and the slowest of burns ahead . . . .

Grinding, whirring, churning, a cacophony of gutted metal shrieking against the weight of collapsing wires and high tech machinery. The remnants of the Parnassus’s insides all but convulsing with the sheer energy rocketing forth from the pods. In the middle of it all, a single capsule shaking from one man’s energy, alone, fragile body tumbling, coming to rest amongst rubble.

**_There are times when even the strongest of souls crumble . . ._**

**_when even the bravest of spirits find themselves crushed under the weight of doubt and misunderstandings . . . ._ **

**_there are times when the light at the end of the tunnel is so bleak, so dim, that hope seems meaningless . . . ._ **

And, as quickly as everything burst forward into motion, it eases. Time slowing, silence deafening. The pods having ceased their endless assault, semi-lifeless bodies exhausting all their power save for the ability to remain conscious, if one could even call it that.

The attempt to pry open tired eyes is met with an echo of pain, traveling up the expanse of his spine, his head, straight into his nasal cavity. The unsettling spinning motion from the pod having shaken him straight through to his core, skin tingling, bristling. He’s left with a crippling pain, flames having been pried from every fiber of his being, all but suddenly leaving his nerves and muscles numb.

For the longest moment he knows what is happening, knows that his life might very well end. Knows the very instant the door swings off its hinges, that he may never stand a chance of breaking free. 

There is no sound, not even the beating from his own heart can be heard—any noise from outside the capsule seemingly having vanished as well. Another attempt to open his eyes results in the highest of frequencies shocking straight through to his ears, florescent lights popping in and out of focus, forcing him to clutch at his temples. He lets out a stream of curses, whispered grumbles tumbling out from cracked lips. The expanse of wires holding him in place jiggle, jostling ever so slightly until coming undone at the seams, leaving his arms dangling at his sides, weak and useless.

The Parnassus heaves, his balance all but draining, what little restrictions keeping him place now gone, forcing him to roll down the incline of broken pavement and electrical pieces straight into the debris, below.

He’s alive, of this he is certain, though his body screams at him from every angle, every nerve ending sizzling and popping from the fall.

Gueira slowly gains focus of his surroundings, registers the onslaught of stabbing pain behind his eyelids, forces himself to survey every piece of rubble and debris laid out before him. And, there is a lot from what he can gather, smoke billowing from what appears to be a giant coffin of a machine, metal and waste littering the ground beneath him, around him, everywhere.

_‘Fuck . . . What the . . . . Where the fuck . . . M . . . Meis . . . .?’_

A sharp breath stabs down his throat, lodging into his lungs as panic begins to envelope his body. All words seemingly failing to form, his tongue heavy and dry within his mouth, thoughts screaming louder than the Promare ever had. 

Everything rushes forward.

Gueira tosses aside any lingering consideration for his own injuries, opting instead to slowly scramble to his feet, maintaining his balance over the uneven earth beneath him. He moves forward as fast as he can, weakened arms pushing out against the rubble, shoving aside debris here and there, willing his shaken body to not topple over.

“Mei . . . Meis?!” His name is the first to pierce the silence, Gueira’s voice all but echoing off the walls with fear, worry, desperation dripping over each letter. “Meis where are you?!” The section of pods in which the taller man had been tossed hangs limp from its wires, shackles having been mangled during the fall. Where a body should lie, remains nothing, not even ash. The redhead’s knees wobble, heart beating faster by the second.

“Meis!?”

_**_

_For a split second Meis feels his heart burst, soul easing out of every pore, his very essence as a human being convulsing in tune with the ebb and flow of energy crashing back inside its vessel. His mind, devoid of any coherent thoughts, a jumbled mess of colors— shooting stars dancing behind his eyelids the longer he tries to stay awake. The urge to scream, to let whatever the hell was clogging his throat, out, becomes more and more urgent with each passing second— every minute spent dangling midair from the pod’s harnesses. Deafening, haunting, uneven breaths bubbling up from between chapped lips_

_And suddenly, silence._

_'I'm alive?’_

_Spoken to himself and himself alone, Meis dares to move, pausing only upon feeling a shooting pain within his back, the slightest of itching sensations coming from where his left hand should be . . . . should be . . . . wasn't. His pulse quickens, the need to free himself becoming more apparent the longer he tries to move, the longer he cannot feel his fingers, the more he begins to see crimson lining the bottom of the pod beneath his feet._

_There is so much liquid, far too much to be considered normal, his entire body seizing at the notion that said liquid is coming from himself—that he’s ever so slowly bleeding out inside what could possibly be his coffin._

_‘Shit . . . shit . . . not here . . . . . . please not here . . .’_

_From outside, the sound of voices, frantic, giving way to metal breaking, machines whirring to drag a half destroyed door off its hinges. Light, overly blinding yet welcoming, forces Meis to glare against the never ending halo of color appearing in front of him. His entire body aches, chest heaving, mouth working around words he cannot seem to form. And the only thought going through his mind, the need to know where his companion might be, if he's all right, if he's safe . . . . if he can see him, touch him, soothe whatever pain the other might be in, away._

_He makes to look around, thrashes within the hold of someone he barely knows, listens to the sounds of the person's voice telling him that he'll be okay, that they're taking him to the hospital. That he needs to settle down, too much blood loss, amongst other things, something about his heart beating irregularly, his entire body working on overdrive to keep up. Hears the hesitation lacing their every word, feels how their arms shake, registers that they themselves are doubting their own reassurances despite attempting to remain calm._

_“We need a stretcher over here, quick!”_

_“He’s going into shock.”_

_“Notify those on duty that we’re coming in with a potential heart failure . . .”_

_Vaguely, amidst the ongoing sound, he can hear a familiar voice calling out, shouting his name from within the debris and chaos. Vaguely, he can feel his body slumping forward, weightless, screaming for comfort._

_The last thing he sees, hears, is the ever present hissing of sirens and a stark white stretcher pushing up to make way for what he assumes to be an ambulance._

_‘I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough . . . .’_

_"If anyone asks for this one, he's under high alert, no visitors until he’s stable. Sir, he’s missing his left arm from the elbow down . . . . I'm not sure if he'll make it . . ."_

_Meis’s world fades to darkness._

**

Sirens, hauntingly jarring, penetrate the silence, mingling with the remaining echoes and lingering pleas of _his_ name. Gueira cannot sense his confidant, cannot feel the familiarity of his warmth locked between his heart and rib cage. He can only register his own frantic gasping for air, his lungs trying desperately to keep up with his raging adrenaline. His vision blurs the longer he keeps pushing forward, irritating, beckoning for him to admit defeat. He cannot, will not, give up, not with the notion of possibly losing the one person most important to him weighing heavy within his mind. If he were to lose him . . . .

Gueira refuses to finish the thought.

He continues to call for his companion, tone escalating with each effort, frantic shouts joining in with the frenzied serenade of sirens around him. He can feel his body slowly giving out, legs beginning to weaken, head throbbing. The redhead knows he must stop, least he risk injuring himself even more, and it only takes a moment of glancing towards one particular pathway before he sees it— a very quick glance of that dark blue hair, that familiar aura, seemingly being shut out behind ambulance doors.

Heated air escapes from between clenched teeth, his chest tightening as he watches the vehicle speed off. 

_‘Meis . . . . N . . . . no. You have to . . . you have to be okay . . . .’_

The world around him starts to spin, heat rising to his cheeks, the sting of fresh tears jabbing at the corners of his eyes, forcing him to squint. The once second in command hangs his head down low, hands coming up to ball against his eyes in an attempt to wipe away the tears. From behind, he can vaguely hear familiar voices beginning to call his name, though they do nothing to entice him to move.

_‘This is all a nightmare, I’m still in bed, I’ll wake up . . . . soon.’_

Red and yellow jackets swim into focus, delicate hands wrapping about his shoulders, helping him to find his balance, again. Rather than fighting against them, he simply allows for them to pull and guide him to another section of the rubble.

Blank stares and subtle nods, the slight shaking of his head left or right, are the only things he can do to remain mildly alert through the flood of thoughts as people he doesn’t recognize slowly begin to assess his injuries. A bump here, a bruise there, minor cuts to his arms and legs where the wires had torn into his skin—somehow nothing serious, or at least nothing that raises any red flags to those standing around him. An onslaught of chills dance up his arms, twirling and twisting up his neck to tumble back down his spine. They’re prodding him, fingers poking here and there, hushed voices barely making their way to his ears.

“ . . . there have been worse . . .”

“ . . . . he’s not as bad off as some of the others . . . .”

“Can you tell us your name?”

Another harsh flood of stabbing sensations to his forehead hurries him back to the present in a frenzy.

“WHERE IS HE?” Gueira pulls at the arms of the medics, taking handfuls of their sleeves between his fingers as he tries to ready himself back to his feet. “Where is Meis?!” He _screams_ for him, just as he had screamed for him while spinning around in the pod. “WHERE IS MEIS?”

**

The first thing Lio hears upon reentering the rubble of the Parnassus, surveying the decaying heaps of mechanical wires and metal alike, is the sound of the pods bursting open, broken coffins laying in pieces upon an otherwise ash ridden floor. And, much like a flood, the sound of silent crying, ex-Burnish wailing into the abyss of darkness.

His people are wounded, some dying, some long since turned to ashen rust, and for once he's at a loss as to how to protect them— how to help them know that things will be all right— because, for once he has no idea what will happen. He meanders around the wreckage, wanders between rescue workers, sees a few familiar faces from Galo's crew lending a helping hand to those who are worse for wear, wonders what everything means. 

Where he stands in this new world in which their flames are gone, in which his power is no longer limitless but confined to the lithe body of a twenty something year old failure, he hardly knows the answer to.

He finds himself lingering down one particular path, lavender hues narrowing against a haze of smoke—heated chemicals still burning within the air—catches sight of a flash of red, a hint of leather. Recognizes the way in which the person walks, teetering, lethargic, holed up within their own little world, depressed. Hears the anguished cries escaping from between their lips, the way they seemingly appear to be breaking down upon the spot, surrounded by white coats and people even he doesn’t know. 

And, Lio can’t help but to quicken his pace, stumbling over debris, his heart beating halfway through his chest the moment he reaches the other.

“Sir, do you know this man?” It comes from one of the medics, gaze searching the expanse of Lio’s face, watching the shorter man as if daring him to say otherwise.

Lio nods, brushing past the nurses to stand behind his friend—his family.

"Gueira ..." He speaks into the fabric of the ex-General's jacket, wraps lithe arms about the taller man’s waist, gathers a much needed breath. Debates on how to tell the already broken man exactly what the officer's had told him, exactly what Galo's team had stated before sending the third in command, away.

"I . . . Meis . . . ." Lio pauses, takes another intake of breath, unsteady hands weaving into the front of Gueira's shirt, fingers clenching fabric until his knuckles all but turn white. He feels the heated sting of tears long before he realizes he's actually crying, long before the ache in his chest escalates to an overpowering hum, long before he can lay down his ability to sound like a leader and not someone that has just witnessed one of their own near death.

" . . . . he might not make it . . . Galo said they rushed Meis to the hospital, he might not . . . blood loss, everything, he just . . ." His words jumble together, no longer worried about how he might sound, how Gueira might take the news. He's hurting, Lio knows the once second in command is hurting, too, and for once he finds it hard not to hold back.

"Gueira, they said he might _not_ make it." Lio Fotia has always been strong, and for once, he finds himself feeling like the weakest insect the world has to offer.

“What do you mean he _might_ not make it?”

Gueira’s tone is soft, faltering between hiccups, sobs, and deep gulps of much needed air. Not one time in his life has he experienced so much torment and fear, even when his flames had awoken within him years ago. No, this feeling was an entirely new experience, even when compared to the pain of the pod spinning uncontrollably, his arms and legs locked down, all life being sucked from him...

This feeling is monstrous, anger and sadness intertwining with emptiness and loneliness, the burnt ends of Gueira’s nerves running cold before numbing.

Nothing made sense, none of it. 

At the beginning of the day they were doing their usual routine, trying to insure the safety of their fellow Burnish. Though it would never be the general public's norm, it was _theirs._ Between the three of them, their stubborn pride and desire to save their own had clearly outweighed the need to save themselves, and the redhead couldn’t help but think about such values while listening to Lio spit out those dreaded words.

"How . . . . ?" _How can Meis be the one who might not make it?_ "B-boss, he can't . . ." _He cannot die._

"I . . . I . . ." _I need him._

Silence strikes the once second in command, lanky arms floating up to lightly rest against the shorter man’s shoulders. Once furious and passionate red eyes are now blank, turned frigid as tears stream down his ash-covered face. His breath becomes labored, harder to control with each passing second, lightheadedness setting in while his knees grow weak.

"B-b-but . . . ." Gueira feels as though he’s puking out the words, gasps of shortened breath puffing out from between his lips with each syllable. He stares into Lio's eyes, smaller figure blurring behind a veil of tears. He desperately tries to search his companion’s face for answers, feels the weight of his knees fully buckling, forcing him to release his light hold on Lio's shoulders.

Everything crumbles down around him, and all he can do is hunch over, aching knees screaming at him to get back up.

Lio collects his thoughts, lowers himself until he’s at eye level with the redhead, lets his hands trail up the expanse of Gueira's back, rubs the smallest of circles into the dip between the ex-General's shoulders. He knows the implications of his words have hit hard, knows without a doubt that the redhead will likely break down should he go off on his own, can tell that the older man is barely hanging on by a thread as is.

"Promise me you won't run off, okay?" The shorter man leans back, searches Gueira's expression for signs of protest, immediately regrets having said anything upon seeing the sheer look of horror— vivid red eyes bristling with tears—taking over his usual cheery appearance. "Galo only knows so much, they wouldn't tell him everything, they won't even tell **me** anything for that matter . . ." He trails off, readjusts his hold upon the taller man's unsteady frame, buries his face once more into plush leather that smells like acidic smoke. "The strain of the pod was too much, it's a miracle you even made it out . . ."

He takes another gulp of air, gently turns the redhead around so that they're facing each other, heated lavender hues giving way to chilled tears. 

"We aren't allowed to even see him, yet, they're refusing visitation rights to all ex-Burnish, some stupid rule the higher ups are making on account of all the fires we set." There's an air of mockery oozing into his tone, distaste for the system and those who run it burning behind his gaze, hands coming down to rest against his sides as if in defeat. "Until Burning Rescue can get the go ahead, we're pretty much useless, lower than dirt from what the officials are claiming . . . . not even worthy of being called his family."

Lio visibly stiffens, balls his fists, lowers his head until his bangs shield whatever expression he happens to harbor. "I don't know what to do for once, Gueira." The once leader of Mad Burnish takes to whispering, tone harsh, lips curling into a pained snarl the longer he thinks about what could possibly happen to their companion, how the other must be suffering, afraid and alone with no notion of whether or not his friends are all right. "If he doesn't make it, if we lose him . . . ." there's a second in which the smaller man shuts down, face paling, fresh tears coursing down his cheeks. He takes to patting Gueira’s hair, running slender hands through puffy locks, attempts to calm himself down along with the other in the process.

"Gueira, fuck, I'm scared too . . . so . . . so fucking scared. I know how much he means to you, I know how much you'll suffer if we're left in the dark, we have to stay strong for him . . . . we have to."

_‘I need him, too.’_

A familiar flash of blue plays within Lio's peripheral, red and orange firefighting gear coming into focus, calming aura washing over him the minute the blue haired man enters. He waves the other over, exchanges a knowing look, tightens his hold on the redhead and slowly rocks back and forth. 

"Galo will help us pull some strings or something, we can't just sit back and wait. I swear I'll get you to Meis, even if we have to break into the fucking hospital. I won't let him suffer alone." Not once does he break contact with Gueira, trying without a doubt to appear strong, though he can feel his chest constricting with doubt the longer they remain in the Parnassus—the longer they are apart from their companion.

“B-boss . . . .” Inhaling shakily, holding the oxygen deep within his lungs for a long moment, Gueira finally snaps back into reality. “I should . . . I should be the one in there. Not him.”

Time begins to quicken between the overbearing sound of blaring sirens, voices, and earthly noises being restored to their usual volume. And yet, his tears will not stop, though the man would have liked to admit he could hold himself together, this was obviously not one of those times. The never ending push and pull of conflicting emotions coupled with his own physical injuries proves too much for the usually strong-willed man, and with each passing second he finds himself unable to remain calm and collected. He wants to run, but his legs and feet refuse to allow it. He wants to scream, but his throat seemingly jams shut with all the little things he wishes he could have said to his partner.

“Boss, I need to see him, I _have_ to see him.” The once second in command attempts to not stammer. “I know we have to keep it together . . . ” His usual resolve tries to shine through the darkness. “But I’m scared shitless, boss . . .what if Galo can’t . . .”

The softest of scoffs can be heard from behind them, harsh tapping of a booted feet echoing amidst the rubble. The person in question appears overly smug, tall and confidant, though their expression lingers on the side of disdain. "If you three are finished," their voice is stern, uncaring, devoid of any emotion, and they take to gazing down at a wadded up piece of parchment, examining the smallest of written text upon it.

"Which one of you is _Gueira_ , and what is your relationship to a . . . ." They chew upon their bottom lip, mulling over their next words carefully, "Meis? I've been asked to relay a message, he's slipping in and out of conscious, but we do have him stable.” They hesitate, tone wavering as if even they aren’t sure what they’re saying is true, “However, until further notice, you are not to step foot into the hospital, even if he happens to take a turn for the worst. We can't chance having criminals in a federal run establishment . . . "

Lio visibly flinches, hold tightening upon Gueira’s frame, knowing damn well that the redhead is about to fall apart.

While it was true that they had been criminals, did such accusations still stand now that their entire world has changed? When they had only been doing what they could to survive? When all they were doing was reacting to the genocide of their people? Would the non-burnish have simply fallen in line when their government officials had they had tried to force them into something they did not like? 

Such questions gave way to why Gueira fought so valiantly in the first place, to why they all had given up so much for so many. Though such nuances plagued the redhead’s mind for a brief second, they instantly disappeared when he heard Lio admitting that he too was at a loss for action, that he was scared, and insecure.

“They cannot fucking do this now…”

Gueira’s tone, devoid of any hope and drenched in what he felt was disgust, beckoned at his heart and soul. A spark of rage shoots hot blood through his veins as he takes in the words and their meanings. Heated gaze settling on the newcomer, a snarl rolling low and deep within his throat.

“C’mon man! If I was fucking asked for, if you were sent here to give me a fucking note, why the fuck can’t I be considered his family?” The redhead’s rage bubbles up, spewing venom into words, and he finds himself unable to stop himself from letting it fly. 

“Can’t you see? He’s a fucking human, and I am too!” As much as he wants to jump the messenger, physically knocking his pain into the other’s face, he manages to keep his fists clenched by his waist. Fresh tears collect around his eyes, red hues narrowing with each sentence. “What risk is there? Don’t you see this mess was created by _your government_ in the first place?”

There was no reason for it anymore, the extra precautions and the segregation . . . . everything that Kray Foresight had stood for having been left for dust the instant the Parnassus came crashing back down to the ground. The ex-Burnish were humans too, no matter what anyone else would, or could, say. Their blood still ran deep with hues of blue until exposed to the air where it turned into a dark crimson tide. Their bones could break. They were susceptible to sickness, and heartache, so why could no one else see that the Burnish were human, too . . .

Everything the newcomer was saying, every syllable that oozed from between their lips, and every slight movement they made, caused a rush of white-hot anger to overtake Gueira’s body. Without thought, he removed himself from Lio’s embrace, seeking out his gaze with tired eyes as if trying to tell him what he was about to do. It didn’t matter that the pain shooting through his knees was unbearable, the redhead was going to see his partner no matter the cost.

Every piece of destroyed metal, each concrete chunk imprinting into the ground surrounding them . . not one thing could stand in his way of being there for Meis when the other needed him the most.

“Fuck this.” Gueira takes one last look at Lio, at the surrounding debris and the chaos unfolding before them, before taking off full sprint toward the hospital.

“The hell is he . . .?!”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” This coming from Galo, the young firefighter’s face stern, tone threatening, hands placed firmly upon his hips in defiance. “Lio, go after him, I’ll stay here. And you,” he turns to face the newcomer, glancing down at the parchment then back up at their face, eyes narrowing. “You take one step after either of them and I’m calling Ignis.”

“Mr. Thymos, I suggest you don’t intervene in matters not concerning you. These . . . . _burnish_ . . need to be monitored before we let them enter such an establishment unsupervised, let alone to see one of their own when they’re easily riled up.” The individual takes a tentative step towards Galo, voice raising an octave with each word they mutter, spewing venom, gaze never faltering and dead set upon Gueira’s retreating form.

“Or you’ll what, exactly? Last I checked they suffered enough.” The blue haired man makes to move into the other's space, eyes the distance between himself and Lio, nods his head towards the gaping hole smack dab in the middle of the Parnassus’s hull. 

Lio takes the hint, wipes a hand against his eyes, smears dirt and dust against his cheeks with each swipe, before slowly backing away, nodding in Galo’s direction before darting off.

“I’ll find him, don’t worry!”

Lio sprints off, tripping over debris and rubble, feels his knees complaining with each step the longer he chances to run, heaves hard and heavy against the sensation of bubbles within his lungs. 

_‘I can’t let him break down, not now, not when he’s so frail . . . not when he can barely keep himself afloat. I can’t lose them both . . . .’_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To burn is to live and to live is to burn . . . .  
>  but what happens to the soul once its flames are taken away?  
> How does one cope with a sudden lack of power . . .  
>  of feeling insignificant . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, mentions of hospitalization, health complications/ severe physical injuries and near death experiences starting from:   
> ‘I can’t die like this, not here . . . . not now.’  
> The last thing he remembers, vision blurring, chest tightening despite trying to regain his breath, is the sound of blaring sirens, overly bright lights, and people’s screaming voices begging to be set free from the pods.'  
> and ending at:  
> “Please…” The words repeat without him even trying. “Please stay with me.” The only person that made sense in the world was lying there, resting on the edge of death, and there was not one thing he could do to fix it.'
> 
> Heavy on the angst, heavy on the self doubt and feels.

**_To burn is to live and to live is to burn . . . ._ **

**_but what happens to the soul once its flames are taken away?_ **

**_How does one cope with a sudden lack of power . . ._ **

**_of feeling insignificant . . ._ **

**_how does one manage when all they’ve ever felt is insecure_ **

****

**_There are times when even the strongest must cave._ **

**_When even those that have reached their highest peak, must jump._ **

**_There are times when . . . . the entire world crumbles without a trace_ **

He can barely keep the pounding of his heart from reaching his ears, each frantic jolt sending wave after endless wave of nausea straight through to his stomach. He’s only just entered the city, legs carrying him faster than humanly possible, adrenaline coursing through his veins, profound tension seeping into his aura against his better judgement, and yet it feels like he’s barely touched the pavement. The once leader of Mad Burnish takes a moment to catch his breath, places unsteady hands upon his thighs, heaves heated air in and out of his lungs in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. His vision blurs, lavender hues widening behind the smallest veil of sweat.

_'_ _Goddammit Gueira, why’d you have to run off on your own.’_

Admittedly, he knows the answer, though he wishes the once second in command had waited just a second more.

Lio sticks to the tree line, keeps his gaze focused on the scenery ahead of him, zigzags around bushes like his life depends upon it. He’d made sure to borrow one of Galo’s hoodies prior to entering the remains of the Parnassus, now he uses the overly large fabric to shield his face, uneven bangs sticking to his eyelashes, stray strands of off blonde hair dancing down the delicate curvature of his cheekbones. There's a hitch in his step, the slightest of wobbling motions as he continues forward, holding himself together piece by painstaking piece.

And he knows, hell does he know, that if he can’t make his way to his former General’s side, then he may never get another chance. May never see the one other person that truly understands him, again.

Lio steals himself a moment of rest, gathers his thoughts alongside his breath, casts a wayward glance towards the narrowing path ahead, vision dimming. Miles upon miles of buildings (one’s that appear familiar yet so very out of place) loom ahead of him, their darkened walls overcast by oncoming clouds, windows tinting an eerie shade of off colored yellow, doorways welcoming yet oddly distant. This far out, even he can still tell the sure signs of damage having been done, dilapidated structures and signs alike cause for growing concern in the eyes of those who seek to rebuild.

_‘The hospital should be around here.’_

A lump forms within his throat, balled up doubt mingling alongside regret—the mere notion that he couldn’t protect his companions, couldn’t stop the inevitable from happening, hitting him full force all at once in the gut. The thought that, quite possibly, he’s lost one of the most important people in his life, damn near horrifying in the face of all that has transpired within the past few days.

And yet, he keeps pushing forward, takes to shuffling his feet upon dirt and gravel, lets the tips of his boots sink in deep beneath muddied up soil. His knees ache, bristling pain shooting up through his veins, needles etching their way through his skin to rest heavy against his heart, forcing him to gasp back a curse, hands clenching tight against his side. He grits his teeth, inhales sharply through his nose, counts to ten. The strain from the engine, the overpowering desire to keep his companion’s safe, the urge to move despite his entire body protesting, every little thing building in momentum the longer he continues forward.

Lio takes to a brisk run, hands clutching his chest with each passing second, legs screaming in protest the closer he gets to the city center.

_‘Stay with us . . . you have to stay strong . . . please wait for us, Meis.’_

Aged walls, darkened doors, the scent of antiseptic in the air, Lio’s heart all but swells upon seeing a worn leather jacket, slouching figure, the all too familiar ruffled red hair, and the once leader of Mad Burnish nearly breaks down from sheer relief.

‘ _Good, you made it.’_

“Gueira!”

Within seconds he’s hurrying towards the once second in command, reaching out with open arms to envelope his friend’s shaking form. He holds the redhead close, weaves delicate fingers into thick bangs, marvels at how soft such unruly locks truly are. He pulls the other’s face close until their foreheads touch, heated tears streaming down his cheeks the instant they connect. 

“I know you’re scared for him, I am too, but what if someone had come after you?! What if something had gone wrong?” Lio lowers his voice, tone wavering, desperation flashing through lavender hues. “We can’t just go rushing off into trouble anymore, we have to . . .” 

_‘We have to be here for him when he wakes up. When he comes back to us.’_

“You know what, never mind. What’s the plan?”

He fixes Gueira with a knowing look, lets his hands fall down to rest against the others, cool and calming, allows for their fingers to tangle together in a makeshift hold. For individuals that once thrived on flames, neither seems to harness any of that warmth anymore, and yet Lio finds himself drawn to the smallest of sparks radiating from the taller man’s body. 

The notion that they can still burn bright together, filters through his mind.

Lio’s calming voice, his grounding touch, the way the shorter man all but leans against Gueira’s frame, steadying the redhead like a rock, helps keep the once second in command focused in the moment. He’s forced to consider the newfound challenges surrounding his beaten body, the notion that he is no longer capable of yielding such injuries without consequences. That he is no longer as strong as he would have been with his flames. And yet, nothing matters if he cannot see Meis, not even his own well-being.

Gueira takes a moment to consider his response, leans into the blonde’s touch and merely breathes in the scent of whatever shampoo the smaller man happened to use that morning—hints of lavender and pine needles filling his nose, calming him beyond belief.

“I don’t have a plan, but I don’t care what I have to do.” He whispers into the crook of Lio’s neck, keeps his hands tangled within the smaller man’s grasp, lets out the smallest of breaths, “I will be by his side, no matter what, even if it means doing something stupid.” Vivid red hues catch lavender before slowly glancing towards a building not far off in the distance.

‘ _We’re doing this together, whether they like it or not.’_

Lio sets his sights on the hospital doors, lets the once second in command take over, because for once he isn’t quite sure he can keep himself together, let alone watch as another of his friends possibly destroys themselves.

“Lead the way, _boss_.”

Silent determination accompanies the smallest of mischievous grins upon Gueira’s face, and the redhead can’t help the sudden wave of anticipation building within his chest—the overpowering urge to push forward, to burst through the doors growing with each passing moment.

“Oh, I’ll lead the way, all right.”

He’s never been more eager.

**

The sight of the hospital looming before them sets both men on guard. The distinct scent of medicine wafting through their noses upon entering the atrium leading towards double sided doors, cause for their stomachs to lurch, heavy fragrance pervading their space the instant they enter. Floral displays line the entryway, soft pinks and vivid blues blossoming amidst gaudy vases, resting alongside a small gift shop. 

They are met with silence, those having sat at the front desk most likely off to lunch or to handle an emergency elsewhere. Gueira sets his eyes upon the display board, searching frantically for the correct floor number, noting the exact second footsteps begin to sound from further down the hall.

“Intensive care is this way.” 

He points towards a dimly lit hall, eyes scanning the expanse of the lobby before slowly making his way towards another set of doors. Lio follows close behind, the sound of his boots clinking on freshly cleaned marble floor.

‘ _Meis . . .’_

“Stay close.” 

Lio motions in front of them, head tilting to the side, the briefest flashes of amusement taking root within his gaze.

“We’ve got company.”

Guards stand tall before the ICU entryway, walkie talkie in hand, their presence foreboding as if someone has already alerted them to the duo despite their best efforts to appear nonchalant. And, as Gueira nods in Lio’s direction, the two can’t help but wonder if someone actually has.

“Hello, boys.” 

The redhead cocks his head, eyes narrowing, lips curling into a dangerous smirk. He sets his sights on the doors, keeps his stance true. “Don’t suppose you’ll let us through, huh?”

Cracking his knuckles, the once second in command waltzes up to them, sporting his typical unwavering swagger, attempting to hide his tear and ash-stained cheeks, eyes swollen from having spent far too much energy. He comes to rest mere inches from one of the guards, hands resting upon his hips, determination thrumming through his veins.

“Well, gentlemen, let’s not make this any harder than it should be, yeah?” He motions towards the double doors, senses Lio moving up close behind him, cautious. “How about we use the magic words? _Pretty please?_ ” Devilish smirk upon his face, mischievous glint taking root within his gaze, the redhead saunters up to the men, pausing only to tap the front of his boot against the tiled floor.

“We’ve got potential Mad Burnish, here. Requesting backup.”

One guard raises his hand, grips tight at his radio before pressing the intercom, transmitting his message loud and clear. “I repeat, we have . . .” He barely has a chance to continue, eyes widening the moment Gueira balls up his fist, itching for a good fight. He notices another man not too far off, knows damn well that he’s made a mistake in trying to reach out for aid, let alone coming into work on such short notice. Let’s his walkie talkie drop to the floor in a deafening burst.

Slender arms snake around his neck, tugging until all he can see are lavender hues gazing back, malice flaring behind the smaller man’s gaze.

“I’d suggest going back on those orders, boys.”

Lio coos, slamming the man down, hard, shoving the heel of his boot into the other’s gut for emphasis. “Wouldn’t want the big bad, Mad Burnish Boss getting angry, now would you?”

Watching the man plummet onto his back, smirk not once leaving Lio’s face, Gueira straightens up his holed up jacket, adrenaline peaking. The redhead lets out a hoot of approval, eagerly socking another guard in the face the instant they try and make contact.

“All right, Boss!”

Static from the walkie talkies echoes throughout the hall, the last remaining guard having run off before either man could reach him.

“That went, well.”

Lio dusts off his sleeves, cracks his neck. Nods towards the last remaining doorway, not once taking his eyes off Gueira.

“Shall we?” He holds the door open, lets a wave of steady reassurance pass between them before stepping foot into the unknown.

Weighing heavy within his mind, Gueira cannot shake the thought that his companion is suffering, alone, without the knowledge that himself and Lio are all right—that they both made it out of the pods and have been doing everything within their power to get to him. They’d barely had the chance to say goodbye, to touch and to soothe, before having been tossed into those deadly metal contraptions, their screams echoing out in deafening waves. Together, they’d vowed to always remain strong, to put the other ahead of their own needs, and yet neither could when faced with the worst case scenario.

Gueira knows their agreement like the back of his hand, can imagine the day they both vowed to protect the other, but his core weighs frail and thin and he finds himself doubting if they ever had that discussion to begin with. He still yearns to be at the other’s side, to see Meis alive, breathing, anything other than the mangled image that comes to mind the longer he finds himself dwelling on the what if’s. There was no way he could promise to be this strong and collected when he could finally be close to Meis. Likewise, the redhead refused to think of how he’d react if Meis did not make it to see another day.

Hell be damned, though, if he would not throw punches and force down all those who stood in his way.

From ahead a steady slew of curses builds, agitated voices escalating into a crescendo of heated sound, heavy footsteps drifting ever closer to their position in the hall. As issued, backup from the guards slowly comes into focus the longer they remain in place. 

And suddenly, silence.

“Boys, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Her voice is soft, delicate, lacking any indication of danger or ill intent. She floats in like an angel, red heels clinking on the tiled floor, pocket book clutched tight to her chest. Her cheeks blush a heavy shade of peach, eyes lighting an eerie teal hue, and though she isn’t wearing a nurse’s outfit, the officers that have made their way forward seemingly back away.

“Ms. Ardebit said you might be coming to visit, though I’m surprised you made it here this quick.” She glances back and forth from Lio to Gueira, takes note of the way in which the redhead’s chest heaves, how his entire posture has turned rigid, pain and doubt looming over him like a cloud.

“You’re here for your friend, am I right?” She sprouts a pleasant grin, beige lips giving way to dimples upon her cheeks, “you have an hour, any longer and I can’t speak for your safety, let alone your friends. Usually we wouldn’t allow non family to visit, but, even I know that he needs you.” She clutches her pocket book tight, runs gem laced nails over the aged binding, slowly begins walking down the hall, ushering them forward with each step.

“I suggest you keep close, _Mad Burnish_.” She doesn’t think to look back, merely keeps going, heeled boots clinking, deafening.

Gueira’s heart pounds heavy in his chest, weary eyes casting a skeptical glance towards the woman, keeping his senses open to any and everything that could possibly happen. There was no way it can be this easy, no way that she meant well without some form of payment after. The sound of her heels clipping at the floor rings through the silence, the only guiding light in this blackened chaos of a world. And yet, Gueira can’t help but wonder what her game is, and he shoots Lio a sideways glance, eyebrows raising as if to say “stay on guard”.

“It’s all we have.” Lio’s tone weighs heavy on Gueira’s heart, the once leader sounding overly exhausted despite having not held back before. 

“Coming, boys?” The woman pauses mid step halfway down the hall, voice beckoning them forward. “Can’t have your friend waiting, can we?”

Gueira takes a deep breath, lungs filling with much needed air, head cooling with each outward puff. He concentrates on the sound of the woman’s shoes, of Lio’s careful steps beside him, and of the ever present memories swirling through his mind. 

They’d been complete opposites, Meis always appearing calm and collected whereas Gueira would burst onto the scene, smirk riding over his lips, eyes blazing with heat. The dark haired man had appeared much like a fog, rolling in over time only to remain a constant when Gueira still harbored his doubts. With time, he’d shown the redhead what it meant to be himself, how to feel at ease in one’s skin, all while showing him that he could let down each mile-high wall and relax around someone rather than having to always remain alone.

_“You ever regret this?”_

_Meis cocks his head to the side, darkened hair brushing over his eyelashes in dainty waves, hands trailing down to rest against his thighs. He focuses on the sunset, lets a slew of curses puff out in a wave of heated breath from between his lips, gathers his thoughts despite not knowing what else to say. There’s a cloud forming above his head, seeping into his usually pleasant aura, morphing what little light he chances to radiate into a hazy mist._

_To his right, Gueira hunkers down, passes over a half finished cigarette, blows fresh smoke into the ever changing colors of the sky. Nods once when Meis accepts the offer._

_“You mean being Burnish, or . . .?” He casts a wayward glance at a passing cloud, darkened eyelashes fluttering over semi-tanned skin, chest moving in tune with the breeze. The redhead sighs, jostles his hands against his side, flops down until he’s laying upon his back, gaze focused hard on his companion._

_The two share a moment of silence, smoke billowing up past Meis’s head, cigarette butt falling to the ground with a dull thump. Their hands barely touch, fingers itching towards the others, ever so cautious of their shared space yet demanding far more._

_Meis never does get to respond, Lio having ambled up to them mere seconds after Gueira’s question, their share of rations within his grasp._

_They break apart before ever coming together._

Gueira sets his sights on the hall of rooms before him.

_‘I’m here, Meis.’_

Every little moment they experienced together flashes through Gueira’s mind in vivid color just before he notices the woman stop outside one particular door. Far too engrossed within his own memories, he barely catches the sorrowful look upon her face as she turns back to look at him, allowing a group of nurses and doctors to rush inside.

**

_‘I won't die like this, not here . . . . not now.’_

_The last thing he remembers, vision blurring, chest tightening despite trying to regain his breath, is the sound of blaring sirens, overly bright lights, and people’s screaming voices begging to be set free from the pods. His own body had fought without restraint to regain its strength, chest heaving against the faintest of grey hues clawing its way through his skin, the subtlest of ashen scents merging alongside a metallic pang. How he managed to get out, he can barely fathom, let alone comprehend the implications of why he was even allowed to survive. He’d felt broken, soul defeated, mind clouding beyond belief. Forever lost in a haze._

_He’d felt his entire world come crashing down in one brief, garbled, moment. As if everything he’d worked so hard to achieve had suddenly vanished without a trace. As if his mere existence meant nothing._

_He’d hoped to see Gueira, to feel and touch and soothe away whatever doubts and fears the shorter man might have had—will always have depending how their lives play out, if he makes it out alive, that is. Not knowing, not having an ounce of reassurance as to whether or not the redhead was alive—safe—only aided in the weight set tight within his throat, the sensation of explosions going off within his mind, popping like pop rocks left and right behind his eyelids._

_And now, now he can barely keep his eyes open for less than a minute without slipping into a daze, without feeling like his entire world is erupting into fragile shards around him._

_‘Where . . .?’_

_The sounds of wires beeping, static like in nature, thrumming to their own beats against a backdrop of machinery, invade his ears. There’s subtle hints of liquid pooling, dripping, from numerous IV lines stretching up and down the length of his being, undulating to a dull hum the longer he concentrates on each noise within the confides of the small white walled room. A steady hum of machines, the drumming sound of overhead voices incoherent and foreign, a cacophony of sounds that he wills his mind to understand._

_White walls, white sheets, the stench of antibacterial wipes and something medicinal._

_“Have we told the front desk not to issue in any visitors?”_

_“Can we get another dose of . . .”_

_“Sir, please take a look at this, he’s . . .”_

_His arm aches, the makings of a sling caught up around where his elbow meets thin air, and he wants nothing more than to yank the barrier off, to rid himself of such an ugly reminder that he was not strong enough. Will never be whole, again._

_“We do have our concerns . . . .”_

_“So, this is what a criminal looks like up close.”_

_There are voices all around him, speaking at just the right level to feign concern, eyes bearing down into his soul as if he were a mere test subject. And, the thought strikes him with an uneasy push to the gut, maybe he really is._

_Meis groans, makes to tug at the intrusion prodding into his wrist, feels around for the plug connecting the wire to his body, comes up short. He lets his arm fall back down onto plush sheets, fingers flexing, attempting to gain an ounce of warmth though remaining oddly cold. Pinpricks of ice tear through his skin, searing into his bones, forcing him to grit his teeth. Behind his eyelids, black dots bristle and burn._

_‘I can’t . . .’_

_There’s a weight upon his chest, right where his heart threatens to burst, and he can’t help but wonder why the entire left side of his body registers as nothing but pins and needles—why he can’t seem to move the fingers of his left hand. He works around another desperate gulp of air, lips parting against the tubing, face contorting into a grimace._

_Everything hurts, burns, bleeds with unimaginable tension._

_‘I can’t breathe . . . .’_

_He tries to take a steadying breath, gathers more than enough air into his lungs, chokes back on whatever ick has decided to thrive inside his weakened body. Heated breath weaves its way through his nostrils, flaring in and out, gag reflex working with each attempt to gather air through his mouth. Promptly curses the day he was ever allowed to survive._

_‘Fuck, fuck, fuck . . . . think . . . think! In one, out two, in one . . . .’_

_Darkness, numbing pressure, overbearing weight seizing his head, jostling any remaining coherent thoughts from his mind. His heart beats hard and heavy within his chest, frantic motions giving way to dizzying desperation._

_And all at once, darkness._

_“We have a code blue!”_

_“Calling all available hands to room . . .”_

_The last thing Meis remembers before his entire world turns black, before he all but begins to welcome what he assumes to be his death, is the look of happiness that had filtered across Gueira’s face the day they’d first met. And how he’d vowed to keep the younger man smiling no matter what the cost._

_‘Couldn’t even do that right . . . .’_

_A little red light goes off on the side of his bed._

**

Vivid crimson hues widen, Gueira all but choking on air as the pieces of his newfound reality harshly slam together. He’s standing on the threshold to the hall and doorway, hands loose against his side, feet fidgeting in place, when the thought hits him, hard.

That he may never see his companion, again, that these people are trying desperately to keep him away from the one person that helps him remain sane.

A shock of pure fear overtakes him, chills racing up and down his spine the longer he remains outside the room—the longer he is held away from Meis’s side.

“Sir, we can’t have you in here!” A nurse draws him out of his thoughts, sweat collecting upon her forehead, eyes narrowing the instant she collides with his shoulder before hurrying into the room. “We have an unwanted bystander, requesting security to room . . .” She trails off, tone wavering. Notes the way in which the redhead jitters in place, keeps her eyes focused on his lithe frame, on the sheer overpowering aura radiating off his skin.

_‘Like hell I’ll stop here.’_

Without hesitation he pushes past the woman, ignoring her calls and the way she tries to block him despite falling short.

Seconds later, he wishes he had.

The man he’s held in such high regard, his companion who had never once shown signs of defeat, lay wrapped up amongst the pure white sheets of an aging bed while medical staff frantically worked around him. The loudest of beeping sounds fills his ears, mocking him wildly, its sole purpose to annoy him. His hands crawl up to grasp at messy red locks, pulling hard as if trying to remove the image from his mind.

‘ _This isn’t happening.’_

“Meis!”

He cannot stop himself from screaming, voice straining, fresh tears threatening to creep into his vision.

‘ _You can’t die, you cannot fucking leave me!’_

Tears roll over his cheeks, sticking to his jawline, cascading down to crash onto his burnt and torn shirt. He inwardly curses, grits his teeth together, an age old habit of alleviating pain, one he wishes he could stop. Watches as the staff do what they claim to be their best efforts for the struggling form before him.

“MEIS!”

“Sir, you cannot be in here . . . . he’s . . . .”

A woman in a stark white dress places her hand upon Gueira’s chest, slowly pushes him back until he’s wavering between the room and the doorway, keeps her gaze focused on his form. She’s speaking without making any sound, lips moving though remaining still, eyes narrowing with each desperate attempt to keep the redhead at bay. Her hand falls warm upon his shoulder, nails tapping upon fake leather.

“Sir, he . . .”

“ . . . Can we get another dose of . . .”

Whatever words follow, Gueira blocks out, head swimming, threats popping upon his tongue.

“He’s what? Do not tell me that he’s dying!” Gueira’s vision blurs, heated rage taking over his core, fists balling against his sides in furious protest.

“He is NOT dying, so help me,” he pauses, gathers strength to push forward. “We promised each other we’d always be together, so stop worrying about my being here and make sure we can keep that promise!”

The woman shakes her head, tone edging on the side of caution. “I know you’re worried, but Sir, I’ll still need you to step outside, please.”

And Gueira all but slams his fist against the wall, heated protest lingering upon his lips, rage billowing from his aura.

“You better not leave me behind.” He pauses only to cast a glance back at Lio, the former leader appearing somber, lavender hues downcast. “Right, Boss? He can’t leave us after all this.” Fragile tears roll down his cheeks, decorating fake leather. Bits of disheveled red locks catch and stick against his skin, sweat and tears mingling, drenching his face. Chills pierce every inch of his body, though he refuses to leave the room, refuses to take his eyes off the man nestled amidst white sheets.

Another frantic voice makes its way to his ears, looming shadow of a nurse drawing close to Gueira’s form, heavy aura leaking out into the room. Mistrust, displeasure, mar the doctor’s face as they all but attempt to pry the man away from the bed, wanting nothing more than to drag him out into the hall. Unsteady hands latch around a slim torso, fingers grasping leather, seemingly tugging only to find that the redhead refuses to budge, refuses to back down in the face of his companion’s lifeless body surrounded by IV lines and twittering machines.

“I need you to step out, now, we can’t have you in here.” There’s a spark of something somber within their gaze, in the way they try to keep their voice from wavering—they’ve seen the likes of this before, of how a loved one can be pushed to their limit in the face of seeing their dear one, suffering.

They know, without a doubt, that Gueira is going off the deep end—will crack the second their patient potentially flat lines, and they know just how hard it is to keep oneself cool when faced with such hard decisions. “I promise if you cooperate, we’ll let you back in the second he stabilizes.”

A series of shrill beeps, static like in nature, drown out whatever else the nurse has to say.

“Can we get a specialist in here, stat, please?!”

“Vitals are dropping, he’s having trouble breathing. I need help over here!”

Frantic voices all around, fluttering of white coats and the tapping of machines going into full motion, calibrating every fine detail, every means necessary to keep the young man’s organs functioning. From the left, a young woman places what appears to be a clear tube down Meis’s throat, steadily pumping his chest, eyes focusing hard upon the monitor as the smallest of lines dance up and down, going from red to blue to green. Another takes to propping the bed, readjusting the back, running a few stray wires into an already packed socket.

The harshest of gasps breaches Meis’s lips, body seemingly spasming, eyelids fluttering against a curtain of sticky bangs and sweat. His color teeters on the brink of pale, flushing ever so slightly from his body working on overdrive. Another heated gasp, lips working around the harshest of coughs.

“Specialist is on their way, sir. Keep his vitals steady, he’s fighting this, he can still pull through.”

“Gueira,” it’s soft, barely audible amidst the thrumming noise bristling off the walls, “let’s talk in the hall. You can’t . . . . you can’t do this to yourself . . . .”

Lio brushes past the doctor with a hold on Gueira’s arm, stands up tall and rigid, eyeing the individual before placing a steady hand upon the redhead’s shoulder. “I know you want to be here for him, but we aren’t what he needs right now.” And, as much as the once Mad Burnish leader hates to admit, “they are.”

A nod in the direction of the doctors, nurses, pen pads and devices held ready should another spike take place. He takes a step back, keeps his hand positioned on Gueira’s shoulder, rubs a path from the man’s neck to his back. “I’m afraid too, but Meis would want us to see him at his best, not at his worst, hell . . . he’ll freak when he hears how we even got into his room.”

“Sirs, please, this is the last time I’m going to ask of you to leave. We can’t have you in here if something," the nurse trails off, “please, just wait in the hall.”

“Gueira?”

Lio refuses to sound weak, refuses to admit that his entire insides are churning at an alarmingly desperate rate, that quite possibly not having eaten all day is finally catching up to him in the middle of a hospital room in which one of his closest friends, family, is struggling for their life. “We’ll wait outside, please let us know if anything changes.”

Upon the bed, Meis shifts ever so slightly, right hand flexing against the sheets, fingers grasping at thin air as if attempting to reach out. His chest heaves, though he doesn’t cough. The lights upon the monitor flash once, twice, lessen until a steady beeping can be heard.

“He’s made it through the worst, notify the specialist of what’s occurred and see what they suggest going forward.”

The softest of sighs escapes from between Meis’s lips, right hand still reaching out, fingers shaking. His eyelids flutter and for a brief second, he can see his surroundings, can feel his entire body screaming for him to rest.

“You came. . . .”

It was harder than Gueira imagined it to be, the attempt to remain calm.

Something within him coming to a drastic pause, pushing him ever so slightly backwards. No longer were the pressures of the world resting on his shoulders as _his_ voice pierced through the chaos. The pleas for him to leave the room, the incessant beeps and whirring of the machines, the doctors demanding instruments and information were mere ghostly noises compared to his voice. Even Lio’s calmer tone and reassuring words muted as his eyes were drawn back to the bed.

A rough, bloodied, hand lifts up, beckoning him, the first real beacon of hope in hours. Gently he pushes his hand through the crowd of medical staff, moving as close to the bed as physically possible. Tan skin meets with delicately pale fingers, grasping the other close. Intricate lines of tears caress his face, lungs gasping for air chest muscles straining as the redhead seemingly falls apart all over again.

“Of . . . of course I came.” Admitting through sniffles and a half-relieved grin playing on his lips, Gueira cranes his head back up to gaze at the mass of tangled dark hair hooked into the tubes and wires.

Hesitation blossoms deep inside his nerves.

And yet, for just a moment, as their skin makes contact, his soul calms in the cage of his chest.

“Please.” His voice trembles, tone thick, deep with worry, begging through another bought of sniffles and gasps. “Please don’t leave me, Meis. I . . . I am so fucking sorry I couldn’t be there for you, couldn’t save you.” The redhead lets out a terrified, shaky whine, allowing for himself to finally feel grief.

Hints of selfish doubt dance onto his neck, sewing seeds of shame inside his core. What if Meis’s time had come? What if his body was shattered beyond repair? What if, the only reason he even forcing himself to stay alive was because Gueira could not stand to be without him?

“ _Please…_ ” The words repeat without him even trying. “Please _stay_ with me.” The only person that made sense in the world was lying there, resting on the edge of death, and there was not one thing he could do to fix it.

**

Five weeks and three days, not that Meis was counting, until he can proudly declare himself “healthy” in terms of hospital standards (not that he really cared about what the doctors said, he would’ve fought tooth and nail to get out had they have decided to keep him any longer). Gueira had been there with him when he’d first woken up, mind foggy, chest heavy, heart thrumming at an alarming rate so much so that he thought it would jump clear out of his chest. Gueira, sweet, rambunctious, idiotic, Gueira had been the first to take his hand, bloodied and unsteady, shaking within the tanned man’s grasp, fingers loosely entwining until all Meis could focus on was the other’s pulse. Until he knew no one would separate them.

Meis fidgets beneath the sheets, slowly flexes his fingers, realizes that his life will never quite be the same the instant mesh rubs against where his elbow connects to air. Collects his thoughts and lets a strain of breath run past his lips.

_‘How long has it been, now. . . ? . . . honestly . . . . that stupid smile of his, I swear he only shows it to me, sometimes.’_

He feels his face heating, too low for a fever but just right for pale skin to turn crimson, immediately pushes any and all other thoughts of the redhead out of his mind, lets himself concentrate on the steady humming of the air conditioning unit, instead. He’s propped himself up onto the edge of the mattress, small canvas bag resting against his leg (courtesy of Lio who had managed to sneak the satchel in without the nurse’s noticing). And he takes to fidgeting with the drawstring, thumb rubbing over a tiny flame charm he’d gotten as a gag joke from another member of Mad Burnish—another member he’d probably never see, again, depending how kind or not the Parnassus was to them.

The television drones on in the background, news bulletins running a mile a minute with up to date notifications on the upcoming trial, the projects put into motion for the former Burnish, and the up keep of the rubble brought about by the Parnassus having come crashing back down to the city’s pavement.

The television drones on in the background, news bulletins running a mile a minute with up to date notifications on the upcoming trial, projects put into motion for the former Burnish, and the up keep of the rubble brought about by the Parnassus having come crashing back down to the city’s pavement.

_‘It’s been almost a month since former Governor Kray Foresight went into custody with Promepolis’ forces questioning where our city may venture to go upon his removal from office . . . . ._ _Former leader of Mad Burnish, Lio Fotia has agreed to meet with former lead scientist Heris Ardebit regarding . . . . ._ _All potential faults against those having dealt with the at large terrorist group Mad Burnish have been lessened, are the citizens of Promepolis truly safe with ex criminals running through our streets?’_

Meis reaches for the remote, promptly switches the station to something less depressing, though the tone in which the reporter had used mildly shakes him to his core. The thought that most will not sit still in midst of the Burnish acclimating back into society is something that sits heavy in his mind—a notion that, even after losing their flames, they might not be truly free . . . has plagued his every waking and nightmare ridden dreams since having arrived at the hospital. All he wants, all he craves, is to be able to walk the streets without being judged, looked down upon, or trash talked.

All he desires is to continue living his life with the redhead by his side—another notion that he refuses to let slide despite knowing the other will never feel the same about him. He sighs, sets his gaze on the far side wall, flexes his right arm up and down, fingers clenching though feeling little to no strength in the motion. The clock reads 3pm, only fifteen minutes past their designated pick up time, and he can’t help but wonder what’s taking them so long. If everything is all right, if Lio has once again taken to confining himself to his work—if Galo can’t manage to get the smaller man, away. If Gueira might not be ready to see him in his half hearted state, again.

He’s glancing out the window, eye narrowing against a haze of sunlight, hand settling upon his lap, when the sound of the door opening and closing brings him back to the present.

“Meis, ya awake in there, buddy?” It’s Galo, he can tell from the obnoxious tone the blue haired man tends to use when trying to sound subtle. “Lio missed a turn on the way here, or we would’ve been in earlier.” He pokes his head inside, sheepish expression plastering itself upon his face. Meis has to crane his neck to see the puff of lime green hair poking out from behind the taller man’s shadow, though he can tell by the way Galo’s hand disappears behind his back, that the other must be holding it.

“Honest mistake, really, when someone is being distracting the entire ride here.” Lio mutters, sidestepping around the other’s bulk, setting his gaze upon the dark haired man, eyes softening at the sight. “Oh, Meis . . .” He can’t help but focus on the other’s left arm, or what remains of it, sling and wrap nestled against the smallest of buds near his elbow. He makes note of a few scratches, bruises, an elongated scar upon his former general’s face above his right eye, though the lack of said eye comes as a shock.

“It’s good to have you back.” And he means it, every word. Lio finds himself visibly shaking, knees bumping against the edge of the bed, hands seeking out the other’s warmth, pulling him into a loose hug. The once leader of Mad Burnish holds back a choked sob upon feeling the other’s arm wrap about his waist, mess of dark blue black hair nestling against his shoulder.

“Lio said you can stay at our place, if you’d like.” Galo comments, takes to looking behind himself in hopes of seeing another familiar presence entering. Visibly sags when said person doesn’t appear. “Nurses gave us everything ya need, meds and all that, and it sounds like you’ll be doing therapy, too.”

“I . . . .” Meis licks his lips, nestles himself against Lio’s chest, breathes in the other’s scent—lingering ashes and something he hasn’t smelled on the young man ever before. “Is Gueira not coming?” It’s the only thing he can think to say, the one thought that has been on his mind since having seen the redhead that very first night in the hospital. “Is he okay?”

“We should probably talk about that.”

**

How many days had he tried to stay by the dark haired man’s side? How many days and nights shifted repeatedly since he had forced his way into that hospital?

How many times had he woken up to an aching and stuff back due to the most uncomfortable of chairs? How many times did he wake up in a frenzy from nightmares of the worst possible kind, only to sigh pure relief upon seeing his counterpart still lying in the bed, alive?

How many times did he refuse to eat? How many pounds had he lost to stay by his friend’s side and push through any of his own needs?

How many times did he have to remind himself that his own life didn’t matter?

Examining himself in the mirror, Gueira notes every one of his imperfections. An extreme sense of nervousness washing over him the longer he concentrates on his slender torso, hip bones jutting out against the waistline of his skinny jeans. 

Did Meis truthfully want to see him in such a state of exhaustion and anxiety?

He resists the urge to scan his body once more, turning away from the mirror propped against the wall. Eyes meet with each object in the room, taking care to note where the medical supplies were located within reach of the bed, ensuring the room was as clean as possible. He had made the bed with such attention to detail, one might have thought he’d once served in the military. He laundered, folded, and put away the few clothes Meis had managed to stow away before they had been taken, wanting nothing more than for the dark haired man to feel safe and secure.

Slipping his feet into a pair of sneakers, Gueira takes one last survey around the room. Helpless and yet thankful Meis was being discharged, he was not sure how the man would react to being around him, again.

His chest tightens, air clogging in the middle of his windpipe. Clearing his throat, he takes a slow breath, pushing heated air through his nostrils. Hearing the hints of footsteps coming through the apartment, Gueira moves to the hallway, catching sight of Lio and Galo at the front door.

_**_

_“Hey Gueira, buddy!” The firefighter grins, tone eager. “Ready to go?”_

_Lio’s eyes echo Galo’s question, though he remains silent, waiting._

_“You guys go ahead,” he whispers. “I’m . . . I’m going to walk.”_

_And walk he had._

_While the streets were not as defined and organized as they’d been prior to the Parnassus incident, they were still rather busy. The resonating sounds of news reports from radios and TVs as he walked through what was left of the city only reminded him of the horrors the Burnish had faced, of the segregation and hate people harnessed for them . . ._

_He recalled the pain he had experienced in the moments of shrieking and begging for the dark haired man to not leave, petrified of living in a world without his best friend, his comrade, his . . ._

_Meis was a hard pill to swallow, even worse the longer Gueira considered possible rejection._

_As he arrived at the hospital, nerves pulsating beneath his skin, knees wobbling as he traveled the winding white halls, he couldn’t help but wonder where their newfound world might take them. Glances to the clock on the wall above the nurse’s station reminded him he was running behind schedule. Speeding up his gait, Gueira jogged down to where Meis should be, where Lio and Galo were already soaking up moments of precious together time._

_His hand grazed the doorway, halting mid step upon hearing his friend say his name—wondering if he was coming, wondering if he was okay._

_‘Meis cares.’_

_He straightens his stance, taking the much needed steps forward to stand at the end of the bed, leaning upon the baseboard._

_"Sorry." A chuckle decorates his tone, grin forming against the corners of his lips, spreading onto his cheeks. "Had to take care of something."_

_To prevent himself from staring too hard, he cleared his throat. "So," jerking up straight ,smacking his hands together once, Gueira emulated confidence and positive energy._

_"Let's get you the Hell out of here, yeah?" It was difficult to pretend that things were relatively normal, that he was strong and reserved now, as opposed to rambunctious and footloose, but it had to be done. When all he wanted to do was take Meis into his arms and hold him, he had to remain collected, for he did not truly know how he might have reacted to such a loving embrace._

_The mutual line revolving around their friendship was still blurred, and all Gueira could think about was what if they had the chance to become something more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has proven to be a roller coaster of emotions for both of us, and there's still a bit more to go in their story. As always, comments are welcome (if we've missed anything please let us know) and we both hope that we've been doing the boys, justice.


	3. Bend and Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well then, I’m all yours, Gueira.” Meis speaks around the lump forming within his throat, against the heavy call of doubt lingering within the confides of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy on the self doubt and insecurities, brief mentions of throwing up and minor hate of one's body image.

“All right, then! Let’s get you out of this hell hole.” 

Galo tries to sound cheerful, works alongside Gueira’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. He knows, deep down, that the situation calls for a celebration, that they’ve all been through hell and back and managed to make it out, however he can’t quite wrap his mind around just how far they’ve come. Meis is alive, though worse for wear and overly exhausted, and yet Galo can’t help but feel a pang of guilt taking root within his chest upon seeing the dark haired man slowly making his way out of the room, stumbling every so often from having been inactive for so long. If he had been faster, if he had stopped Kray before he even thought about using the pods, none of this would have happened. The once third in command wouldn’t have woken up in a hospital bed fighting for his life, wouldn’t have had to live the rest of it as a broken husk of what he once was. And it’s said thoughts that leave Galo fighting an inward battle with himself, cursing the very day he ever thought about praising Kray Foresight.

_‘Not like I can do much about that, now.’_

“You’re going to love my place.” He settles for keeping some form of small talk going between them, easing the tension that has built up the longer they linger behind closed white walls. “Lio and I worked really well together trying to make it comfy for ya, too, even had everyone pitch in to get a new futon.” The makings of a smile bring warmth to his cheeks, baby blue hues glistening despite his inner turmoil. A sideways glance at Lio brings a newfound wave of confidence surging through his spirit.

“We did, didn’t we.” Lio chimes, directing his gaze towards the once third in command, noting how the taller man appears to be concentrating on anything other than their surroundings. How he keeps fidgeting with his bangs, attempting to pull the dark curtain over his scar. How he appears so very frail. “Gueira even helped pick out the sheets.” He nods in the redhead’s direction, lets the smallest of knowing smiles blossom upon his face, “we all want you to feel comfortable, Meis.”

“Ya didn’t have to go through all of that for me, Boss.” Meis’s overall tone changes, softened drawl ghosting past his lips, far less confident, borderline uneasy. He finds himself leaning against Gueira’s side, using the shorter man for support despite not wanting to appear weak. Takes to carefully resting his hand upon the redhead’s waist, steadying himself as a wave of nausea makes its way through his stomach straight up to his chest. “I could’a slept anywhere, no need to fancy things up.”

“We wanted to, though.”

It catches Meis off guard, just how kind and utterly sincere Galo can be, and the blue haired firefighter must realize the other’s confusion for he takes to standing further back, hands fidgeting against his side.

“Why won’t you just let us take care of you?”

Gueira’s tone is soft, doubt easing its way between each letter, weaving through his mind the longer his companion protests. And yet, he can’t help but focus on Meis and Meis alone, casually taking in each strand of blue black hair, every inch of semi heated skin as he feels the familiar weight settling against his side. Like a magnet his hand travels down to weave calloused fingers through Meis’s delicate hold upon his waist, welcoming his companion’s touch, taking his weight without protest. A flicker of hope resonates within the hardened cage of Gueira’s chest, the knowledge that Meis is still alive, that he feels comfortable enough to use him for support, barely keeping him from shaking with sheer joy. Though the darkness of the unknown still called out to him, pleading and pulling at his skin with the sharpest of claws, the redhead dismissed the siren calls as soon as he could feel Meis’s body resting against his own. As soon as their hearts beat as one, side by side.

**

If anyone has any doubts about letting Lio Fotia sign the release papers, they dare not chance to speak them out loud, though they do little to hide their fear. Word of the once Mad Burnish leader having been in the facility to visit his friend (the man that staff now realized as having been a criminal at large) traveled far and wide throughout the hospital’s many floors and units. A few lingering glances, frowns of disapproval and hushed words, follow the group as they make their way down the hall leading towards the front exit, signed papers in hand.

“ . . . good to have them out . . .”

“ . . . . should have let him die on the stretcher . . .”

Lio keeps close to Galo’s side, hand slightly grasping the taller man’s so as not to lose his cool. His face remains devoid of any emotion as a few choice words make their way to his ears. He can feel his companion’s temperature rising, entire body twitching with pent up energy, steals a sideways glance in his direction and slowly shakes his head back and forth.

_‘Not now.’_

The blonde mouths under his breath, tugging casually upon the firefighter’s hand until their shoulders touch. He leans into Galo’s space, redirects the taller man forward, away from any unwanted confrontation. The need to leave overpowering the urge to fight back. And yet he can tell from Galo’s expression, forehead creasing, vivid blue eyes glowing in silent determination, that the man isn’t willing to stop just yet, that he refuses to let his companions leave with such a bad taste in their mouths.

“Yea, well . . . good riddance! Not enough color in here, anyway.” Galo raises his voice, puffing out his chest in the process, “was that okay?” He looks to the shorter man for support, beaming from ear to ear as if expecting some form of praise. He keeps their fingers linked together, rubs little circles into Lio’s palm the instant he catches his partner sighing.

Lio merely nods before chucking the papers into a nearby trashcan the minute they all step foot outside. Fresh air and sunlight surround his small frame, the slightest of breezes picking up off yellow locks, delicately ruffling each strand against his face. 

“Let’s head home, shall we?”

And when he speaks, the same light eases through his voice.

**

The drive to Galo’s apartment is far less eventful than most. Meis falls silent in the back seat, head resting against Gueira’s shoulder, fingers absentmindedly smoothing over the redhead’s jeans, pulling here and there at stray threads that have worn down from overuse. Gueira’s heartbeat flutters against his ribcage the longer Meis rests against him, heavy beating drowning out the humming of the radio, of Galo and Lio’s quick little conversations and any noise filtering in from outside the windows. 

Without much need for talking, he simply takes in their shared moment, allows for the pleasant curtain of blue black to cover his shoulder, stray strands tickling the side of his face. Galo and Lio are comforting in their own way, but there is nothing they can say that will take away the pain his partner felt (still feels), and Gueira knows that. The same pain lingers for him, desperation to soak all the ill-feelings from his companion nipping at his fingertips, threatening to tear him apart should he be denied the desire to help. To siphon the venom from Meis’s stinging wounds, to erase any recollection of the events leading up to the moment the pods had exploded, to permanently silence the hate spewing from the mouths of the non-Burnish—if there was a way he could, he surely would for the man sitting beside him and then some. The displeasing murmurs and sharp looks of disgust while they’d walked out the hospital doors had invoked hot blood to coil through his veins, the need to tighten his hold around Meis’s waist taking effect long after their arrival to the car. 

_‘Fucking assholes.’_

Gueira’s thoughts are interrupted by the slightest of movements, muscles tensing and mind going on high alert the instant he picks up on Meis’s subtle discomfort. Heat builds between them the longer his companion shifts in place, pale skin flushing, quickened breaths escaping through half parted lips.

Meis finds it hard to focus, to keep his thoughts from turning dark, to wondering if he should have actually died locked within the whitened walls of the hospital like the nurses had hoped. The weight of his sling hurts, bristling pain making its way from his elbow up, toying with his confidence the longer he lets his mind wander. He fidgets in place, leans further against the redhead’s frame, takes to stretching his legs out as far as they will go without hitting the seat in front of him. His entire body burns, muscles aching from having been laying on the hospital bed for too long, the pain from the pods still overtaking him any chance it can get. There are far too many thoughts going through his mind, far too many memories jostling together to create a hazy fog behind his eyes, clouding his vision until he finds himself shaking. His stomach heaves, bile rising within his throat, venom poisoning his airwaves.

“Boss, pull over . . .” Heat rises to his cheeks, voice coming out between puffed out gasps, “gonna be sick . . .” Meis bites his bottom lip, breathes in deep through his nose, tries to focus on the floor of the car, anywhere but the whirling images passing by outside his window.

Meis’s words hang heavy in the air, guilt and a nagging sense of hopelessness hugging Gueira’s shoulders the instant his companion speaks, expression shifting to one of concern, uncertainty.

_‘What if I can’t help him the way he needs to be helped?’_

And it’s such a thought that pervades Gueira’s mind no matter how hard he tries to push it aside. Meis remains glued to his side, shivers running up and down his body the longer he waits, hand clenching the fabric of his jeans till his knuckles turn white.

One careful U-turn, a few missed traffic signs and a skidded stop later, and Meis finds himself doubled over between a few bushes, seemingly letting the insides of his stomach out onto a patch of unlucky roses.

_'_ _Goddammit, this can’t really be happening.’_

Meis steadies himself, lets his hand fall heavy to his knee, heaves a heated sigh through his nostrils. Chills trickle up and down his spine, sweat beading upon his forehead, throat constricting around a muffled gag. 

_‘In and out, deep breaths.’_

He repeats over and over that everything will be all right, that the heat rising to his cheeks is just from being outside for too long. Thanks the others for not bothering him, for not questioning his need to race through the bushes in hopes of finding some form of hidden peace. Realizes that he won’t be alone for much longer the instant he hears steady footsteps coming up from behind him despite wanting nothing more than to remain alone, immediately lets all the tension flood from his shoulders upon recognizing the other’s presence.

_“Meis.”_ Finally finding the will to speak, Gueira does his best to comfort the other after not having been able to for so long. Having scurried out of the vehicle to chase after him, Gueira manages to fall in line behind his companion, carefully gathers a mess of blue black hair, holds it away from the taller man’s face with ease. He takes to rubbing gentle circles into Meis’s scalp behind his ears, let’s his aura wash over the other, soothing.

“It’s going to be okay, just let it all out. You’re going to be all right.” Darkened strands weave between his fingers and he takes to resting his free hand upon Meis’s back. Attempts to reassure his companion that everything will be all right, that he’s here for him no matter how long Meis needs, even if the once third in command won’t outwardly admit it.

_‘You’re weak, an embarrassment, nothing remotely worthy of being protected. He has nothing to gain from helping you.’_

Meis cannot shake the thoughts festering deep within his mind, numbing tendrils coiling about to blossom into darkened images of times in which he’d not done enough, not helped enough, not said the right words to bring a smile to a hurting child’s face. Sure, he’d been the first of the three to awaken, to harness his flames and go forth into the world as a Burnish, however he’d never quite been able to master them to the full extent—had never been capable of controlling himself despite always appearing level headed and calm. He allowed for Lio to take over, for Gueira to become the brawn of the team, and for himself to fall into something less than fight worthy. He’d given his teammates the chance to flourish, for them to burn greater than they ever had, and for that he found himself full of pride while watching their efforts to take down Freeze Force, to save their people.

He found himself gradually sinking back into the somber state of mind he’d possessed before obtaining his flames.

_‘Should’ve turned to ash in the pod.’_

And, if he’s being honest, he wanted to.

He’d yearned for the quick release of having his body pulled this way and that, energy diminishing with every popping motion of the wires attached to his limbs. He’d wondered if the dull throbbing coming from his side meant anything, if the ever growing grey color taking over from his shoulder down would result in him vanishing. And he’d be naïve to admit that he hadn’t welcomed the thought and then some. There’d been a brief moment in which his pod had rumbled, wayward wires snapping in two, elongated threads thrashing about as electricity surged around him—a malfunction in the machinery giving way to heated pressure crashing into the right side of his face. He’d screamed far louder than he ever had in that instant. Crimson spilling from a gash upon his forehead, skin searing straight down to his cheek. His vision had blurred shortly after.

_‘Nobody cares about you, you’re lower than dirt.’_

Meis shudders, feels the entirety of his stomach churning, temperature dropping till sweat beads upon his forehead as he all but dry heaves straight down into the bushes. Acid fills his mouth, bitter poison burning his tongue with every attempt to keep it down, and he forces himself to gag the longer he remains bent over. He’d been hesitant to eat that morning, worrying rather about if he appeared healthy enough, calm enough, happy enough to be heading back after being away from his companions for so long. He’d rummaged around in the duffel bag Lio had snuck in, slowly realizing that he honestly didn’t own much, let alone anything of real value aside from a few stray lighters and an old photograph from his younger years. Without his flames, without the title of Third in Command, the thought struck him hard and heated in the gut that he was ultimately useless once more.

_‘He’s merely taking pity on you, you’ll only let him down as usual.’_

He vaguely continues to register Gueira’s presence behind him, feels his companion’s calming touch weaving through his hair, gentle fingers pulling stray strands up and out of the way until his scar shows, marred skin covered only by a small patch of gauze coming into focus. Gueira’s presence should be soothing, should ease his pain, however it does the exact opposite, brings a newfound wave of nausea to his stomach, sends a shooting pang straight through to his heart.

“Just breathe. If you need to keep throwing up, go ahead, I’ll stand here with you all damn day if I have to.” Gueira pushes a steady breeze against Meis’s neck, hopes that his breath will cool the other off just enough to feel the slightest bit better.

_‘I don’t want your pity . . . I don’t need you feeling sorry for me.’_

Chills ease their way down Meis’s spine, and he knows it’s meant to be a caring gesture, though all he can feel is a resonating surge of guilt spreading throughout his veins. He finds himself reeling, tensing within the other’s grasp, wondering if the sweat upon his forehead is noticeable, if the sling upon his arm makes him appear needy—weak. He swallows back bile, chews upon his bottom lip, clenches his teeth against a silent scream. Gueira, sweet, precious, innocent, Gueira, is standing behind him and the only thing he can manage to think is that he doesn’t deserve the man’s help, doesn’t require whatever pity or care he’s attempting to give.

_‘You aren’t special to him, worthless piece of shit that you are.’_

He gathers his strength, brushes his hand across his companion’s arm, slowly pushes the other away until he can right himself once more. The unease in his stomach subsides, leaving space for an empty hunger he hasn’t felt in years, one that remains with him as he redirects his gaze towards the car.

“We should head back, can’t keep them waiting forever.” Meis pauses, wipes his hand across his lips, ignores the fact that his tone comes out harsher than he’d hoped. “I’ll be fine, Gueira, don’t worry ‘bout me.” He takes to walking back, wobbling ever so slightly until he can lean against the frame of the car, until Lio slowly helps him back inside, and Galo takes to the driver’s seat once more.

_‘Don’t act like you care when you have no idea what I went through.’_

The poison weaving through Meis’s tone stings, paralyzing Gueira in place, embarrassment flooding through his veins the longer he fixates on his companion’s retreating form. He aches to reach back out, to curl the man tight against his frame, though his arms remain dangling against his side. Widening eyes grow blank, clouding over into darkened embers.

_‘What did I do wrong?’_

Gueira attempts to rewind their time together from the moment he entered the car up until Meis left, clicks his tongue upon the roof of his mouth, turns abruptly upon his heel, hesitation heavily lingering within his chest.

“Oi, Gueira!” Galo sticks his head out from the driver’s seat window, claps his hand against the side of the car, “we’re gonna leave without you if you don’t hurry up!” He means it as a joke, though he has to wonder why the other doesn’t make any effort to move. He takes to concentrating on Meis, on the way his body seems to sway despite having sat down. “Feeling any better, Meis?” He lowers his voice, notes the way in which the overly slender man has curled in upon himself, eye closed, bangs hanging in a low curtain against the bridge of his nose. Knows the instant he speaks that he’s barely able to stay awake, let alone focused.

“I’ll be fine, Galo, don’t worry.” Meis’s voice shakes and it takes everything he has to not throw up again right then and there within the car. “How much longer till we get to your house?” He starts seeing double, head swimming against a throbbing ache forming near his neck.

“Not long, fifteen minutes or so, I can make it there in ten if Lio doesn’t mind my speeding.”

“Make it five.”

“Can do.”

Galo cranes his neck, glances out the window once more, “Coming, Gueira?” Watches as the redhead slowly shakes his head, the smallest of frowns overtaking his expression.

“You guys go ahead! I’m gonna run to the store.” Whether Galo registers Gueira’s sudden lack of confidence, the firefighter doesn’t say, nor does the redhead seem to mind. Red hues zone in on the backseat of the car, hoping to catch his counterpart’s attention before Galo drives off. “Take care of him ‘til I’m home, yeah?”

Shaking hands slide into the comfort of his pockets, a desperate attempt to keep his composure, to prevent himself from causing any more damage. Before his life changed, before becoming possessed by the wild calls, the endless push and pull of the Promare needing, yearning, to burn, Gueira had been alone. For someone such as himself, it should have been easy to face even the slightest hint of rejection, and yet when Meis was involved . . . .

“Fuck.”

Cursing the very man himself, a smoldering anger burns bright within Gueira’s chest. Ultimately, he had done nothing wrong, he’d only wanted to help his companion feel safe and at ease. Nausea seeps through his being, lodging its ugly head within his throat.

_‘I get it . . . he’s not feeling well . . . But, what the fuck?’_

The redhead inwardly wrestles with himself, visibly appearing devoid of any emotions though his mind works on overdrive. No, he hadn’t needed to stop at the store, he’d already done so the day before, frantically making sure all necessities were obtained, the cleaning had been done, and all medical supplies were stocked. Simply put, the man needed some fresh air and time to gather himself. Knowing it would do no good to maintain his usual hotheaded and quick persona, Gueira had ultimately decided that he needed to walk.

One hand digs out his lighter from his back pocket while the other grabs the pack of mildly mangled cigarettes he’d stowed away, having forgotten about them upon entering the hospital room. Situated between half parted lips, the cigarette waits for the lively spark of comforting flames, though he doesn’t rush with lighting it.

“I cannot keep fucking thinking like this.” A half-doubtful chuckle escapes his lips just before he lights the cigarette, inhaling a long puff, smoke billowing from his nostrils. A hum of irritation rolls off his tongue the longer he ponders his situation. “I refuse to be called useless, he’s just gonna have to get the fuck over it.”

**

_Galo had been quick to gather Meis from the back seat, looping his arms about the shorter man’s waist before hoisting him up to carry bridal style, much to the other’s frantic shouts and wide eyed stare. He’d had made sure to walk slow, easing them both up the flight of stairs to the elevators, keeping a steady hold so as not to jostle the other, allowing for the smaller man to nestle against his chest, weakened body slumping heavily within his grasp._

_“We’ll be home, soon.”_

_Between Galo’s calming baritone and the sound of his heart beating against his ear, the once third in command couldn’t help but wonder if home would mean forever. If he’d finally be able to settle down without having to live in constant fear—without feeling as if he’s a hindrance. He focused on said thoughts as they neared a door with a series of cut out flames framing what appears to be a hand drawn stick figure of a dragon._

Galo’s apartment is well lived in, spacious, designed to look like modern day architecture with hints of old time flare. A series of windows face an old metro-park location with a children’s play set and a small pond, what appear to be rose bushes line the expanse of the field around it. Sunlight filters through the living room, pleasant scent of lavender and day old laundry wafting through the quaint space the instant the door opens. Miniature floral displays take up a vast section of the living area, brightening the room with vivid purples and blues, while images of different city locations, a few festivals and events from year’s past, adorn the walls. Before Lio had moved in, Galo had spent his days mostly at the station, neglecting to care for his bachelor’s pad to the point of having heaps of week old dishes in the sink—Lio had made quick to clean the entire place, even adding the flowers as a last minute touch. Galo couldn’t have been happier.

“Well, welcome home.” Galo waits for Lio to enter before shutting the door, eases his way into the living room with the smaller man following close behind. “It’s not much, but we’ve worked hard to make it feel safe for you both.” He gazes down at Meis tucked tight within his arms, the makings of a wry smile forming upon pale cheeks. 

“Right! Let’s show you to your room, you’ll be sharing with Gueira, only got a queen sized bed in there, but it should be fine for now.” He rambles on, not once letting Meis go, rather finding himself tightening his grip the longer the other doesn’t complain about being held. Wonders if the sensation of slender shoulders gradually relaxing within his grasp is a good sign or not. Decides that, so long as Meis remains comfortable, he will protect the once third in command at any cost.

_‘I can practically snap him in two, no wonder Gueira was worried.’_

Meis is, without a doubt, fragile compared to the firefighter, lanky figure and the slimmest torso Galo has ever seen (aside from his own) more than enough reason for concern. He’s ironically delicate in a sense, and Galo takes to cradling him with the utmost of care.

“Just think, we can have movie nights together, make dinner, oh man I can have you try my killer burritos . . . this is going to be great, you’ll love it here, I just know it.” Galo keeps his tone soft, warmth pouring into each word. Squeezes Meis’s shoulders just enough to force a gasp out of the slender man’s lips.

“Killer burritos, huh? What makes em killer?” Meis questions, glancing up at the blue haired man through darkened bangs, exhaustion becoming apparent upon his face despite attempting to appear enthusiastic.

“It’s a secret, of course!” With that Galo lets Lio open the bedroom door, watching intently as Meis takes in the entire space, eye widening, mouth opening with a silent puff of breath. The firefighter is hit with an immense sense of pride, chest swelling with the notion that they’re all going to be a family, that he’s finally found the people he wishes to be around for the rest of his life.

That his apartment finally feels like a home.

Meis shoos them both out the instant the firefighter sets him down, takes to rummaging around the spare bedroom after promptly shutting the door behind them. His sling hurts, fabric having chaffed a bit on the car ride in, rubbing against his bandages to the point of drawing a bit of fresh blood. Sighing, he shuffles towards the bed, plopping down hard upon the mattress, weaving his hand through cool sheets before falling down hard upon them. He’s never felt so tired in his entire life—never felt so weak—and he can’t help but wonder how long he’ll be forced to wear such a bothersome contraption, how long his scars will hurt.

How long he’ll continue seeing clouds of smoke billowing behind his eyelids whenever he attempts to fall asleep.

With a curse he props himself up, carefully peels back the makeshift sling wincing as harsh fabric catches upon heated skin. He can barely change the damn thing on his own, let alone glance at the wound for less than five seconds without feeling his insides screaming in protest. The once third in command fumbles aimlessly with the hem of his shirt, takes to biting his bottom lip, falters only upon tasting acidic blood upon his tongue.

_‘Fucking hell . . . .’_

He considers calling out to Lio, shies away at the idea for fear of appearing weak in the eyes of his former boss. Mentally curses the doctors for not having fully shown him how to change the damn thing on his own. They’d hurried away the instant after learning who he was—who he associated with. The mere notion of him having once been Burnish, festering deep within their minds, lingering like poison within their stares. He finds himself falling back down upon the bed sheets, arm resting upon his chest, teeth gritting against heated pain the longer he’s unable to even function. 

_'Better off dead.'_

**

It takes the entire course of an hours walk and Gueira resorting to chain smoking for him to even regain a sense of confidence and security. He flicks a cigarette butt into the street, dusts stray ashes from his palms onto his pants, before entering the apartment building, feet shuffling hesitantly across tiled floor. Anxiety takes hold of his hands, toys playfully with his fingertips, sweat building against his palms, and he finds himself unsure of his next move. Knows that the longer he waits outside, he’ll only find himself turning away once more. 

_‘You can do this.’_

With a heavy sigh the man takes to jogging upstairs, pausing only upon reaching their designated floor. He stands awkwardly outside of Galo’s front door, millions of thoughts racing through his mind, eyes zoning in on the doorknob that seemingly beckons him in with a heavy heap of indecision, taunting him from inches away. He squeezes his eyes shut, inhales another deep breath through his nostrils, exhales the instant his hand touches the doorknob. Static bounces up and down his arms, cold sweat beading against his forehead as he slowly opens the door and steps inside. He leaves his shoes by the entryway, shrugs out of his jacket, takes a few heavy footed steps into the living room hoping to find the space empty, though he happens to find Galo and Lio sharing the couch, hushed conversation pausing the instant he enters.

“I didn’t see anything we needed.” He shrugs nervously, fingers instinctively finding their way into puffy red locks, tugging on a few loose ends in frustration. Confusion fueled by doubt coerces its way into his veins, the need to survey their fridge coming to mind as if wanting to prove his point. “So . . .” His voice remains steady though lower than normal. “Is he . . .” Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge he pushes the door shut with his hip, fidgeting in place, not wanting to finish his sentence for fear of hearing bad news. Crimson eyes absorb every inch of the floor as he slowly steps around the counter. “Is he okay?”

“You should probably go in there, y’know? Find out for yourself and all that.” Galo suggests, eyeing the once second in command with raised eyebrows.

“Gueira,” Lio begins, jostling against Galo’s side before fixing his former General with a careful stare. “He won’t say it out loud, but even I can tell he’s suffering.” He waits for the other to respond, leans further against the blue haired man’s chest, crosses his arms for emphasis the longer he doesn’t get an answer. “He needs _you_ , not us. Besides, when have you ever been the type to run from a challenge?”

If only they knew how harsh Meis’s words had stabbed into him. If only they could fathom the dark pit he felt growing within his chest, festering the longer he thought about being within the other’s presence. Fiddling with the bottle of water, Gueira does his best to remain calm.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I just don’t know how to handle him when he’s like this, you know?” He nods in Lio’s direction, tone soft. “Thank you though, both of you, for driving him back here.” He pauses, considers his words, “for letting us stay.” Sincerity weaves itself into his voice just before he disappears down the hall.

He knocks lightly on the bedroom door, leans forward to hear whether or not Meis answers from within, can’t help but wonder if the dark haired man will actually let him inside without another stress induced fight. Knows that, deep down, he’d rather be by the other’s side even if he happens to be upset—even if he happens to ultimately hate the very ground that Gueira walks upon after all is said and done. He battles through his innate, energetic hotheadedness, grips the doorknob with still sweat slicked hands, turns the knob ever so carefully so as not to alarm the other with his presence.

“Hey, Meis?”

Gueira’s met with silence, dull and oddly sickening to fathom. He rests his forehead on the cool of the door, bides his time, takes in deep gulps of air from overheating lungs. And, all the redhead wants to do is walk into that room, _their_ room, wrap his arms about the taller man’s waist and hold him close.

The longer he’s met with silence, the more his mind takes to overthinking, and it comes as a relief to see his companion lying upon the bed the instant he throws the door open. And yet, short lived relief fades into silent panic, jaw clenching, mind going into overdrive upon seeing the other struggling, injured arm shaking against his chest, deep breaths passing through semi parted lips.Gueira works off fumes, quickly gathering rolls of gauze, medical tape, scissors, and a few other supplies from the top drawer near their shared bed, gaze never leaving the dark haired man’s face even while he sets everything down with careful ease.

“Hey,” he beckons for the other’s attention, urges his companion to focus on him and him alone. Wants nothing more than to have Meis realize he’s there for him, to understand that he won’t leave even if it means seeing the once third in command at his worst.

“Focus on me, Meis.” 

He slowly presses one of his knees into the edge of the bed, rests his weight against plush material, bends over until he can gently bury his fists into the mattress on either side of Meis’s frame. The corners of his lips slip into a small smirk, voice a hummed whisper, “I know you don’t want me to help, but I refuse to leave you alone like this.” He searches his companion’s face for some form of recognition outside of the pain. Regret for not having been stronger, for not having saved him sooner, rushes through his veins, pushing him to will the Promare back into his body so he can heal him, take away his pain, make him happy again.

With delicate care he maneuvers around to a sitting position, leaves enough space between the dark haired man and himself, slips a pair of latex gloves on and slowly takes to opening the sterilizing supplies. Already Gueira wishes they could go back to a time before their lives were thrown upside down.

And, in all honesty, it had destroyed him in every sense of the word, the thought of not being able to talk freely with his companion—of not being able to stand by his side without holding some form of innate regret. 

Meis glances down at his arm, what’s left of it, winces at the soft contact easing against either side of his body, the redhead’s weight slowly pressing down upon the mattress, enveloping him from all angles. He finds himself wishing that he could just up and disappear, combust and burn himself alive, though the chances of burning out (even when he had his Promare) until one saw death were slim to none. Freeze Force would have seen fit to that in no time. Meis jolts from his thoughts, feels the gentle press of calloused hands hesitantly reaching out to linger against his skin, tender warmth seeping into the numbness he’s grown accustomed to.

“And for that matter, I’ll go ahead and let you know, _Dallas_.” Nimble fingers dance over the remains of Meis’s arm, red hues carefully scanning the mess of wraps for their end. Gueira chuckles, shakes his head from side to side as if suddenly finding the entire situation comical, “I don’t really give two shits if you don’t want me here, so you might as well let me be useful at least.” He scoffs, tone bordering mild amusement.

The softest mewls of protest escape from between half parted lips, Meis slowly easing himself upright until their foreheads barely touch and he can get a good enough look at the softest hints of heat blossoming upon tanned cheeks. How vibrant red hues mirror nothing but concern, care, possibly even something more, for him and him alone.

How his companion seemingly wants the world for him—how the redhead can somehow manage to set Meis’s heart stuttering despite always being under the utmost of control.

For a split second he finds such a look to be endearing, cute even. 

“I know you won’t take no for an answer. When have you ever?” He manages to keep his tone even, breathes in deep through his nose, winces against a sudden onslaught of pain surging down from his shoulder to where the rest of his arm should be. “You don’t have to coddle me though.” Meis lowers his voice to barely a whisper, reaches up to run his fingers through the curtain of blue black covering his scar.

_‘Although, even when we first met you were always trying to make me happy no matter the cost. It’s what I love most about you.’_

“I won’t coddle you so long as you don’t act like a damn baby.” Grinning wildly at Meis’s murmur of protest, Gueira carefully starts to unwrap the dirty, aging, gauze strips from his companion’s arm. He casually eyes the way Meis slowly combs through darkened locks draped heavy across his face, catches sight of the newly formed scar set deep against pale skin. He lets his gaze linger a fraction of a second longer than he’d hoped, catches the faintest hint of recognition flashing through that darkened stare. His heart grows heavy, dangerously jumping down into the pit of his stomach as a thought strikes him hard—although he doesn’t mind Meis’s appearance, it hadn’t occurred to him just how his companion would potentially feel about himself. How he might take Gueira’s casual stares to be something other than admiration.

“You gonna take my shirt off, or just stare at me all day?” Meis manages a cheeky grin, tongue ever so slyly poking out, daring the other to make a move. “If you do a good job, I might even give ya a reward.” At this he winks, playful grin taking over his expression, warmth seeping into his cheeks, coloring his skin a healthy shade of peach. The makings of a laugh bubble up from deep within, and he takes to leaning further into the other’s space, vivid blue gaze searching the expanse of Gueira’s face, noting every intake of breath, the slightest hitch and gulp for air, to the way the redhead almost lights on fire the longer their skin touches.

Wetting his bottom lip, Gueira lets out a doubtful laugh. “Big talk for someone who doesn’t even know how to take care of his own bandages, keep saying things like that and I might just rip the shirt off.” A playful wink would hopefully distract the man as Gueira peels off the last layer of bandaging. Gently he lets Meis’s arm down into a natural resting position, takes to tossing out what little remains of the wrapping before examining the wound.

Meis shifts, lets his legs dangle off the edge of the bed, leans against the redhead for support, scoffs a heated sigh in response. Staff had been quick to want the ex-Mad Burnish out of their hospital, even quicker to usher their rules on how to keep his sling clean, let alone how to properly care for the healing skin around his elbow. He’d assumed the wound would hurt, pieces of the pod having cut straight through to the bone, bending and breaking marrow until his nerves had severed at the joint, he just hadn’t realized how much grief it would cause. 

Their relationship had always been funny to outsiders, but perfect for him. The countless times they’d stayed up long into the night, flames bouncing around in darkness and dead silence only to end up drinking more liquor than they could handle while cackling under stars, had been more than welcome. The comfort Meis had found within Gueira’s company offered him peace of mind during their time spent in Mad Burnish, while the fire in his companion’s eyes was more than enough to spark unnameable sensations powerful enough to defeat his self-control.

“Well then, I’m all yours, Gueira.” Meis speaks around the lump forming within his throat, against the heavy call of doubt lingering within the confides of his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gueira, you say you aren’t done with me, but.” At this his tone drops, fingers balling against his thigh, hand twitching ever so slightly. “Can you even handle me to begin with? I’m not . . . I’m not myself, anymore. I’m not the me you knew, before. How can you be so sure of yourself when even I’m not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of implied past sexual abuse, abusive family situations, and heavy on the angst/self doubt.

_There are times when, even the strongest must bow down. When, despite all odds, one must give in to the inevitable pull of correcting what is considered “wrong”. He’d never been one to listen to authorities, never one to hold his head down for less than a second, eyes keen to honing in on his surroundings—to knowing the in’s and out’s of any given location at any specific time. He’d given his all to bettering himself, to making his mother proud and his father pay for all the wrongs he’d done to the woman during her early years, alone._

_He’d given so much, and yet . . . ._

_“Leave me alone!” His mother’s voice sounds from downstairs, echoes of glass shattering, cabinets shaking, desperation escalating alongside her frantic pleas. “It’s not what you think, I swear, please, please listen to me.”_

_The sound of skin striking skin, pained sobbing, the softest of apologies drifting over his mother’s lips._

_“I don't care what ya say, he ain’t no son of mine, that bastard ain’t nothing but scum, scum is what he is!” Venom churns from his father’s lips, the older man raising his hand up high, shadow looming over the huddled figure before him._

_“He’s still our son.”_

_Meis is fifteen when he feels his body ignite for the first time. When his mother pleads for her ex to leave, to put the weapon down. Meis has had far too much time to learn the rules of being street smart when his hands clench at his sides, fingers tightening against the sudden pull of frenzied power, coils of off orange light bouncing around his slender frame, dancing amongst the darkened hallway. He’s quick on his feet, shuffling through the hall to the kitchen, eyeing the doorway where his father stands, the floor where his mother kneels, hands shaking while picking up broken glass, tears streaming her face._

_“Now tell me, the hell were ya thinkin, woman? Standing up for his shit? Allowing him to go off with some misguided slut.” His father’s voice booms against the walls, deafening, terrifying. The older man takes a step forward, hand outstretched, switch blade tossing up and down, twirling against his fingers with utmost precision. Malice seeps through his aura, eyes blazing, mouth curving into a dangerous smirk. He wreaks of cheap booze and sweat, all hyped up on hell knows what._

_“He deserves to be happy . . .”_

_“The hell he does!”_

_And Meis lets go. Feels the embers flowing through his veins, bursting forth from his pores, eyes widening as he all but combusts._

**

“Well then, I’m all yours, Gueira.” Meis does his best to appear nonchalant, bats his eyelashes ever so playfully, slowly pats the spot beside himself on the mattress and watches with hidden intrigue as the redhead mules over a response. 

“All yours, huh? When’d you get to be so bold?” The redhead teases, fiery gaze lighting with mischief the instant he focuses upon his companion. He pulls off his gloves, tosses them into the trashcan near the dresser and leans down to rest his palms against the mattress, expression a mixture of predatory wonder. “What would you suggest I do with you, hm?” Their bodies are barely touching, Gueira taking to hovering just above Meis’s legs, and yet he can feel wave after pounding wave of heat radiating from the dark haired man’s aura straight into his chest. 

“I suppose I really could rip that shirt right off ya, though I wouldn’t want to get that heart rate of yours up too much, again. Last thing we need is another trip to the hospital.” Of course, having spent years around the other meant that Gueira knew when Meis was toying with him, likewise the redhead found out early that pestering the once third in command gave him just the right amount of happiness in return. 

And yet heated stares and blazing souls, millions of thoughts left unvoiced to dissolve into stardust, refuse to stop dancing between them for what feels like the thousandth time that day. Nothing, ~~everything~~ , feels different despite that Meis was Meis and Gueira was Gueira, bare bones and scarred pasts with no strings attached bleeding out between them within the confides of their shared space. There had never been a Parnassus. No Promare. No whirring of alien-like machines working on overdrive to destroy their lives. No voices screaming out for fear of never seeing the light of day, again. 

“Hey,” a cautious whisper erases Gueira’s once playful tone **,** innocence morphing into a seriousness the likes of which he’d use during their days spent in Mad Burnish. “I . . .” Hesitantly he reaches out towards the other, makes to carefully pin back stray strands of hair sticking to Meis’s eyelashes, does so with the utmost of ease so as not to accidentally upset him. He lets calloused fingers run down the expanse of Meis’s cheek once he’s given permission to finally touch, to feel and hold. Ever so slowly he moves his hand to the back of his companion’s neck, traces small circles into flushed skin, feels the uneven rise and fall of the other’s spine beneath his touch.

**“** I thought I’d lost you.” And there is far too much emotion packed into that one sentence, in the way Gueira brings their foreheads together, breath mingling, gaze falling heavy upon plush lips.

Meis shudders, keens into the sensation of gentle hands slipping ever so carefully over his skin, relief blossoming deep within his chest at the thought that such a man has come into his life—that Gueira has devoted so much time to making sure he’s safe, to cherishing him when no other has seen fit to even glance in his direction. The mere fact that he has placed so much trust in the other, has let his guard down around him numerous times only to be picked back up with words of reassurance, speaks volume.

“Gueira.” He whisper’s the redhead’s name with a gentle breath, follows his gaze until their eyes barely meet.

And, he’d be naïve to think that their years spent together hasn’t resulted in him wanting something more—something tangible, memories that will last a lifetime with the boisterous man.

_‘How am I this lucky to have someone like you?’_

The redhead is teasing him, of this he is certain, despite knowing that the other is trying to help, despite knowing that his companion wants the best for him, he can still tell when the other is up to no good. When he desperately wants something but is far too afraid to ask.

He’s more than aware that their existence together has become a dangerous game of cat and mouse, something that they’ve both carefully tucked away from day one despite forever bouncing towards the other. Fleeting opportunities, missed chances rearing their ugly heads whenever the time is right, always dancing around the other much like water, ever so slowly coming close only to be pushed away by another force, another misstep in the wrong direction, never truly reaching a moment of true togetherness. Never really gaining that much needed push in the right direction.

_‘If only you understood.’_

On instinct Meis leans into his companion’s side, lets a pleasant hum build up within the back of his throat the longer he feels those cool hands running over his skin, coaxing him into a state of mild comfort. He immediately regrets his decision the instant Gueira flinches back, expression morphing into one of shock, confusion. Their moment has ended, of that he is certain.

“Right, bandages.” Gueira’s face flushes crimson, eyes darting anywhere but his companion’s face. “Have to finish changing your bandages.” He fumbles, half smacking into the bedframe on his way over to the medical kit.

The once third in command watches as Gueira goes to retrieve more bandages and antiseptic to clean his wound, takes in every ounce of the other’s presence (imagines what the other would do if presented with another situation, another chance). Flinches against the sudden chill of having the other gone from his side. 

“You act as if you’ve never changed these, before.” He eyes the redhead behind a curtain of blue black bangs, gaze lingering a second too long on the other’s face, lips quirking into a half smile, tone changing. “So, tell me _Miami_ , what else do you think I might enjoy?” He manages to creep closer the instant Gueira returns, lips ghosting across a slender neck, drawn out puffs of breath landing upon tanned skin.

“If you know me so well, what do I want right now?”

He chances a muffled laugh, flexes his arm just enough to reach over and rest his fingers against the redhead’s leg, smooths over the fabric of Gueira’s jeans in small circles. They’re both so close, noses barely touching, lips mere inches apart, and he takes the much needed effort to bridge that gap, brings their foreheads to knock together, hopes beyond belief that the other doesn’t sense the slightest hint of discomfort running through his veins, the way he tries to casually swish his bangs to cover the scar of his eye.

He needs the contact more than life itself, needs to know that the other is there with him, yearns to feel his warmth (what’s left of it) after having been cold for so long. Wills himself to break down whatever walls he’s built up through the years for just one second of his life, one moment of allowing himself to feel needed, wanted, loved.

The rhythmic motions of his companion wrapping gauze about his arm, heavy stench of antiseptic drifting about their heads, the reminder that he’s no longer in the hospital but rather safe with the one man he needs the most, lull him into a sense of much needed security.

“Gueira, I . . . .”

And if his voice sounds strangled, breathless, he barely has time to register such thoughts as the tender sensation of hands working bandages around his arm slowly vanishes. He keeps his hold upon the redhead’s leg, lets his thumb dust over Gueira’s knee, rubs against thick fabric with elongated strokes. They are so close, and Meis wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Every memory of pain, every thought of lying awake stuck between the whitened walls of a dimly lit hospital room, every inkling of feeling as if his life was ending within those passing seconds, seemingly evaporates at the chance of seeing the redhead up close, tanned cheeks blushing a pleasant shade of peach, widened eyes gazing at him and him alone. 

Meis chances to speak once more, nodding towards his rebandaged arm before hesitantly glancing back up at the redhead, “Guess you do know how to change a bandage, huh? Thank you.” His tone is soft, breath vibrating against a tanned collarbone, lips curving into a lopsided grin.

Gueira’s hands drift from Meis’s arm to his neck, slender fingers weaving into darkened locks, willing a sense of ease to wash over every ounce of his companion’s being. He feels more than sees his companion shudder against his touch, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, hooded gaze searching the other’s expression for answers even he doesn’t understand.

And all Gueira wants to do is drown in everything that Meis has to offer.

He shakes his head, quiet protests of being “done” bouncing around the back of his mind, though he knows damn well he’s anything but. He might have been done with dressing Meis’s wounds, but he was not done with whatever had been conspiring between them for months upon months on end. He stares at the man before him, savors the potential in that moment, soaks up every available piece of energy his companion chances to give. 

“No, Meis,” he speaks calmly into the silence, cups the sides of the dark haired man’s cheek gently between calloused fingers. “I . . . I’m never done with you, never will be either if I’m being honest.” With a heated sigh he brushes his lips against Meis’s, barely making contact though just enough to hear his companion’s breath hitch. Hints of hesitation restrain him from pushing forward, gnawing doubt eating away at his insides the longer he hovers, sweet pleasure coiling within the pit of his stomach. Ever so slowly he pulls away, eyes searching a darkened gaze in hopes of finding the right piece to their never ending puzzle.

“That is, if you’ll have me?”

Meis’s head clouds, gaze faltering, mouth working around sounds that dare not escape from between his lips. He makes to grasp at the other’s arm, to hold him back from pressing their bodies any closer—to keep the redhead from doing anything else that he’ll ultimately regret come the next day. 

“What are you implying?”

“That I want more of you, all of you, anything you’ll give me.”

Meis feels the softest intake of breath upon his lips once more, the subtlest of touches that does nothing but send his heart into frenzied panic, forcing the darkest of thoughts to break free from his mind. It’s only another small kiss, only a brief brushing of lips, fleeting and feather like, barely there if he honestly considers it. And yet, all at once, he finds himself shivering, tensing, gaze hazing over till he can no longer focus on the man before him, let alone on his own breathing for that matter. Innocent, childish, his own response lingering at the tip of his tongue though he’s unable to speak. His head swims, fingers finding purchase in the redhead’s sleeve, pushing himself away ever so gently until his back hits the wall and his knees come up to rest under his chin.

A surge of guilt, of some unknown emotion he can’t quite name, coils within his stomach, churns around and rises up the expanse of his throat, stinging. Gueira hadn’t even touched him for less than a second, the redhead having pulled back with a sheepish smile, vivid crimson hues gazing at him in the most loving of manners. He hadn’t meant any harm, and yet . . .

Meis’s cheeks blush crimson, embarrassment burning into paled skin, forcing him to push his chin further against his knees.

_‘He means well, deep breaths.’_

The once third in command eyes Gueira from his position on the mattress, weaves delicate fingers through unruly blue black locks, draws each strand to cover the scar where his eye should be, lowers his head and counts to three. Shallow breaths, in and out, chest heaving despite trying to remain calm, to regain his composure.

_‘This isn’t . . . . this isn’t what you want . . . this isn’t how you want to treat me . . you’re being far too sweet.’_

The only thing Meis registers are his own glaring accusations that he isn’t worth the effort, isn’t worth the time nor the patience—doesn’t deserve such tenderness when all he’s ever known is hardship and pain. Can’t seem to understand why Gueira wants to willingly stay by his side, why the shorter man sees the world in him when even he can’t see a single ray of sunlight beyond his own hand.

“Gueira.” Meis’s voice breaks, tone wavering against the lump forming deep within his throat. “I think . . .” He tries once more to form words, to speak the thoughts that filter frantically through his mind, refusing to let go. “I think we need to . . .”

The softest of knocks can be heard from behind the door, jolting Meis back into reality. He mechanically jostles to the edge of the bed, barely lets his shoulder touch Gueira’s own before slowly making his way over, tentatively opening the latch to let some light in.

A welcomed distraction, a means of getting his thoughts to slow down, his face to cool and his chest to stop inwardly combusting despite having lost his flames. Whatever was going to happen, whatever small moment they’d begun to share, he all but brushes aside in hopes of moving forward. In hopes of not letting the redhead down.

“Hey guys, Lio ordered some pizza. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t sleeping or something.” Galo’s voice can be heard from behind the wooden frame, feet shuffling ever so slightly back and forth, eyes widening the instant he’s greeted with a partial glimpse of their shared room. “Oh, didn’t think you’d answer, really.” He sounds worried, tone shifting between his usual boom to something far too soft for his boisterous self.

“So, ugh, pizza?” The blue haired man takes to leaning against the wall, not wanting to intrude, yet somehow managing to read the atmosphere, noting the subtle differences in Meis’s stance and the way in which Gueira has yet to acknowledge his presence. “I’ll, ugh, I’ll go tell Lio you guys’ll be down in a bit.” He doesn’t wait for a response, rather he takes to scurrying off down the hall as if burned.

“We’ll be down in a bit, Galo.”

Meis closes the door, heaves a sigh, glances towards the bed, towards Gueira who has yet to make a sound. Takes a steadying breath and makes his way back over, sitting down only to lean against the redhead’s side, blue black hair cascading over a tanned shoulder.

“Gueira, you say you aren’t done with me, but.” At this his tone drops, fingers balling against his thigh, hand twitching ever so slightly. “Can you even handle me to begin with? I’m not . . . I’m not myself, anymore. I’m not the me you knew, before. How can you be so sure of yourself when even I’m not?” He chances to look up and into the redhead’s eyes, does his best to read the other’s expression, lowers his head as if defeated. A slew of thoughts bombard his mind, from the day they first met to the time spent alone, afraid, cringing back bile and blood within the capsules. For as long as he can remember, he’s had the other by his side—two peas in a pod, the brains and the brawn. 

And it’s not long before he lets the flood of tears flow freely, heated and salty against his cheeks, ugly wrinkles marring his face.

The way Meis’s voice wavers, normally a melodic and drowning tone, now turned hesitant and uneasy, forces Gueira to take a shuddering breath. It wasn’t like him, at least not like the Meis everyone else knew in the light. Within the darkness, however, the once third in command had proven to be different, prone to feeling insecure and doubtful, though it never caused Gueira to fall away. Suddenly, Gueira feels as if he’s cradled within that darkness.

_‘Can you even handle me to begin with?’_

“Of course I can handle you.” Gueira lowers his head, fingers twitching, resisting the urge to join their hands together. “It doesn’t matter if you’re _whole_ or not, if you’re missin’ pieces . . . I don’t give a fuck so long as it’s _you_ , Meis.” Heated tears accompany his wavering tone, hands instinctively reaching out to curl around Meis’s lower back, pulling him close till their sides touch.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” The redhead confesses, lips pursed, eyes searching the expanse of his companion’s face, taking in every small detail, every tear staining delicate features. “Not one damn thing is wrong with you, and if you honestly think there is, then tell me what I need to do to make things right. How can I make you whole? I will do anything for you, Meis, _anything_.”

“Anything?” Meis raises his head, unscarred eye gazing past Gueira’s form to the wall behind him, slipping in and out of focus as if watching a ghost. He slumps forward, balances his arm upon his knee, lets a sigh escape from between pursed lips, head swimming with unvoiced thoughts the likes of which would send him straight to the pits of Hell, and then some. Meis takes a frantic gulp of air, breathes out heavy and hard through his nostrils, feels the pull of familiar heat entering his body, slow and steady, circling through to rest within his chest, and immediately relaxes into Gueira’s warmth.

“Anything.” Gueira whispers, tightening his hold, pins working their way into his heart the longer he listens to his companion falter. 

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin, though.” Meis pauses, casts a wayward glance at the floor, balls his fist till his knuckles turn white. “I can barely help myself, Gueira.” He’s gone so long doubting the very ground that he walks upon, the way he can barely go about functioning for more than an hour without somehow managing to screw what little of an existence he has up, that the mere fact of the redhead so casually staying by his side never ceases to amaze him.

_‘There is nothing wrong with you.’_

Except, Gueira is wrong. Wholly incorrect in his thoughts, in the way he holds Meis up on a pedestal despite everything he’s been through—everything the dark haired man wishes to forget, to bury behind the curtain of blue he so loves to hide within. His vision blurs with fresh tears, jumbled memories pouring into the front of his mind, pervading his thoughts until all he can do is cling to the redhead for comfort.

_‘ . . . . nobody without your boyfriend, huh?’_

_‘He’s just like the rest of em, ain’t he? Eager to please then tosses ya to the curb.’_

_‘ . . . . sack of shit . . .’_

_‘Use em and abuse em, he ain’t worth the time.’_

_It had only been a month after awakening, of being on his own in a world that sought to destroy people of his kind. A month of harboring the harshest of hate towards those that had wronged him—those he hoped to burn till their bones broke and their flesh coiled. He’d been so thrilled, utterly enamored with, the multicolored pinpricks of light shooting out from his fingers, that he’d forgotten to hide, forgotten to wander down the path less traveled by, venturing instead into the heart of the city._

_He’d woken up the next morning to a black eye, to the feeling of disgust nestled deep within the pit of his stomach, to holes in his clothing that he hadn’t remembered having been there the day before._

_To the sensation of being dirtied beyond belief._

_He’d come across a wayward man with wild red hair and the most absurd of grins exactly two months later. And suddenly, every last bit of regret he’d held was cast away in hopes of seeing that man stay by his side._

Meis lets the softest of hisses pass between his lips, eyes the spot on the floor once more before redirecting his gaze back to his companion. The dark haired man takes a moment to collect himself, hand shaking against the fabric of his pant leg, fingers prying at the smallest of stray threads, pulling until it frays loose. Tries his best to keep the flood of emotions reeling within his mind at bay—from appearing like a storm upon his face.

“Sometimes, I just,” Meis’s tone hardens, teeth grinding. “I just don’t see why someone would want to help me. Why I’m so special to warrant such care.” He leans once more against Gueira’s side, tucks his head underneath the redhead’s chin, lets the other ever so carefully embrace him, his own hand snaking around the shorter man’s waist, fingers falling feather soft to rest against his hip. He knows, that should his entire world begin to crumble, the other will be there right alongside of him to help pick up the pieces. Knows without a doubt that Gueira means well, that he isn’t like the others that sought to exploit him in his time of need.

And yet, the once third in command can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s going about everything wrong. That he should suck up his innermost doubts and simply let the other comfort him. Gueira is his rock, his anchor, the only bright light that continues to shine for him and him alone, and the thought that he might scare away the other is something he takes to heart—a notion that he harbors no matter what his companion might do or say.

“I want you to make me forget, to make me whole again.” He whispers each word like a prayer, keeps his hand fixed at Gueira's hip, smooths his fingers over the fabric of his belt buckle. “If you can do that, then maybe I can,” he falls silent, sighs, slowly detaches himself from Gueira’s hold and runs his hand through blue black locks. “Never mind. We should go eat, don't want the food to get cold, right?" 

“Meis?” Sour hopelessness dances onto Gueira’s tongue, regret weaving through his veins with each passing second, “the hell we should go eat, this isn’t about food, this is about you. The food can wait, they can wait.” His tone raises an octave, eyes searching the other’s expression for signs of acknowledgement. He’s never been drawn to someone like this before, never felt such high strung emotions gnawing at his heart, every ounce of his being screaming to pull the taller man down—to throw caution to the wind and really show Meis just what he does to him and then some.

“Why is it so hard to talk to me all of a sudden?” Auburn eyes glisten with fresh tears, voice lowering to below a whisper, “if I’m going to help you, I have to know what’s going through your head. Even if it’s me you want to forget, I don’t care, I just want to help you.”

“That’s just it, I’m honestly not sure if you can.” Meis takes a moment to steady himself, slowly eases off the mattress and makes his way over to the door, hand falling heavy upon the handle. “I’ll be in the living room, come down when you’re ready.”

The sound of the door slamming shut forces Gueira to jump.

**

Meis claws at his sleeve, nails digging into the sling that covers what should be his lower arm—his drawing hand, the one thing he’d managed to perfect throughout his years of constant doodling, of trying to follow a half assed dream of becoming an artist. A lot of good that did him. He leans back into the cushion of the futon, draws his legs up to rest underneath his chin, tries to focus on the whispered words coming from the television, some random comedy show playing throughout their shared meal of pizza and salad. He’s already managed to keep down half a slice, idly picking at the remainder of his salad with tentative disgust growing in the pit of stomach every time he hears the fork scratch against his Styrofoam plate. The discussion from before plays heavy within his mind, mingling alongside his friend’s subtle laughter.

He wants to run back to their shared bedroom, throw himself upon the bed, and scream. He doesn’t care who might hear him or what they’ll think, he just wants out. His blood boils, temperature rising despite his entire body feeling cold, despite the need to shiver.

_“. . . . even if the one you want to forget is me.”_

Gueira had sounded so let down, tired, betrayed even, for a man that usually rang with positive energy. He’d held him with such care, wrapping tanned arms about his waist, all but cradling him with a tenderness he never realized he needed. And Meis had up and slapped the very hand that hoped to protect him, to keep him whole.

_‘All you do is hurt him, turn him away.’_

The once third in command shifts upon the futon, pushes his fork into the salad, mushes a few noodles here and there, feels his stomach heave at the mere thought of eating, of seeing his food slowly growing cold and congealed upon the plate. He wants to cry, to let out whatever the hell he’s feeling and can’t put a name to—the sensation of burning poison within his heart, bitter and vile, driving a knife straight through his gut.

“It’s just, I love how they wear such weird costumes, ya know?” Galo had insisted they all take the night to bond, tossing down a few boxes of pizza and a huge heaping bowl of pasta salad, suggesting that (since they’d all been through Hell and back) a good laugh would go a long way. He’d been eager to see the two ex-Generals joining in, had wanted nothing more than for them to feel welcome and safe, and continued to watch as Meis casually slipped in and out of their discussions, noting the man’s expression as it drifted off into something unreadable.

And that’s how Meis suddenly registers the firefighter’s presence, how he notices the other’s gaze slowly focusing in on him and him alone, the way the blue haired man all but stops eating. He opens and closes his mouth, attempts to form words despite his tongue weighing heavy, thoughts all but ceasing to exist within his mind.

“Meis?” Galo’s tone sounds far too soft and out of focus, “you okay?” And although he doesn’t make to touch the other in question, he still leans close, hand coming to rest against the remote before switching the television off. “Maybe we should call it a night.” Galo casts a glance in Lio’s direction, redirects his gaze towards Gueira, clears his throat with a much needed cough. “Yea, I’m feelin’ kind of sleepy, let’s call it a night.” He stretches, leans back into Lio’s side, slowly wraps his arm about the shorter man’s shoulders and squeezes. There’s a look of something Meis can’t quite name filtering through the firefighter’s gaze, in the way he suddenly focuses on the ex-leader, eyelashes fluttering.

He doesn’t wait to hear what else the firefighter might have to say.

Meis is quick—quick to jump to his feet, quick to shuffle into the kitchen, depositing the remnants of his food and plate into the trash. Quick to hurry back into their shared bedroom, hurling himself onto the mattress, pressing his face into the plushness of an old pillow, willing every ounce of tension to ooze out from his pores.

“Fuck! Fuck. . . . fuck . . . fuck!” He barely registers that he’s screaming, voice muffled against the fabric, hand clenching the sheets beneath him. “Stupid, you are just . . . . why do you . . . . fuck.” Unshed tears build up within the corner of his eye, stinging his skin, daring to fall despite not wanting to appear weak. He mentally curses himself, smacks his hand down hard upon the mattress. He wants whatever the hell it is that Lio has found, yearns for the tender glances, the subtle touches, the way the other visibly brightens whenever in the firefighter’s presence.

He wants to feel special, loved, needed.

He wants the one person he’s told himself he can’t have. Wants nothing more than to be held and cherished, wants his best friend to look at him much like Galo can’t take his eyes off their Boss. 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

There’s a burning in his chest, a fire screaming to be set free, the urge to combust growing from the moment he stepped foot outside of the hospital. And he knows, knows he cannot control the flames anymore, knows they’ve left his body a battered and beaten husk. But he wants, wants to gather what little warmth he can, wants to fuel the unyielding sensation that refuses to be quenched despite having become “human” once more.

Meis rolls onto his back, glances towards the doorway, and waits.

“I know how you can fix me . . .”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leaves half his heart behind that night, lost to the darkness of their shared room and his own insecurities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning for make out sessions while under the influence of alcohol, can possibly be taken as dubious consent, though both have knowledge of what is going on, they assume the other does not.

_His feet are throbbing, ankles aching with every step he takes, legs growing tired, knees becoming weak. He’s been walking for so long that he’s lost track of the time, can’t quite remember at what point his entire body began to shut down, or how many welcome signs he’s crossed in the process. Traveling like this is nothing new to him, nor are the swollen ankles and burning calves. The daily struggle to find sustenance and shelter, the need to keep moving forward through the pain, it wasn’t the most ideal life, but it was his._

_Every day a looming emptiness pushes him around, yanking at the roots of his deep red hair, biting at his heels till he bleeds. Such hardships keep him moving. Lingering shadows of shame and guilt, past mistakes and promises he couldn’t keep, ghosts calling out to him every hour of the day, the need to run is all he knows, and run he does. Upon hearing of the Burnish awakening within his town there was no time wasted on weeding through populations to single out those who were not ‘normal’, nor did it take them long to eradicate his city in the process. Men in white coats, shouting voices and the sound of heavy boots upon aged wood, they’d burst through the door of his home, making it a point to destroy as much of it as possible as they marched through doorways, grabbing his family one by one._

_A living nightmare. His entire world shattering within seconds._

_Blood curdling screams from his sisters’ room, the booming of combat boots down the hallway, pleading voices extinguished by way of ice. His hearts beating clear out of his chest, hands wrenching his bedroom door open, leg muscles screaming as he sprints down the hall to his sister’s room, instincts kicking into overdrive to keep his family safe. He’s yanking her away from a soldier’s hands within seconds, hurrying down the hall towards the only other safe exit._

_“We’ve done nothing wrong! Leave my children alone!”_

_His mother’s voice, strangled, frantic, his father holding her tight while she watches their entire world burn to the ground. Exhausted from having tried to fight, to force the soldiers away from her family, her tears go unnoticed to those threatening her children._

_“Please, we mean you no harm . . . please.”_

_“Strange, didn’t hear you saying that when you went and burned one of my troops.”_

_Gueira listens to the commotion with bated breath, sweat and tears sticking to his skin, blurring his vision, knuckles whitening the longer he keeps his fingers glued to the windowsill._

_“We’ve gotta go now.”_

_He motions for his younger sisters to join him, watches intently as they scurry over, holds them close before quickly pushing them up and over the sill until he can see that they’re standing safe upon the grass. Until he knows they have a chance at running away._

_“You’re coming too, right?”_

_“Geewaa come too?”_

_They stare up at him through darkened lashes, eyes wide, tears clinging to their cheeks. The tiniest of hands reach out for him, beckoning him to jump._

_“Kids, run!”_

_“Stay away from my wife!”_

_“Hurry!”_

_Ice shards erupt from down the hall, heavy blasts of energy deafening, sucking every ounce of moisture from the air to charge it back up into millions of frenzied pellets. And all at once the temperature rises._

_There are white coats on the lawn._

_“Gueira!”_

_He doesn’t even think before he’s tumbling out the first story window and onto the grass, knees scrapping against dirt and pebbles, legs working to lift him up the instant he hears his sister’s screams. His breath escapes him, lungs aching, heart beating a mile a minute as his little legs push forward with as much force as he can muster. He makes it just in time to see a white coat firing, heated trails of red billowing out upon release. And he knows within that moment that his life will never be the same._

_Echoes of their screams become part of his nightly routine, sheets overheating, limbs tossing and turning despite never being able to get comfortable. An image of pure fear wrestling within their crimson eyes, the look of horror ghosting across his face reflected in their cold stares, every moment elongated into agonizing flashes of pain that fill his mind every waking day and night. For years, everything on the earth reminded him of that night._

_For years he lived in constant fear._

_for years he wished himself dead . . ._

_“See, it’s not so hard, just let it call out to you.”_

_The pink and blue musings erupting from his palm are more than recognizable, tingling his skin, surging hungrily through his veins. They’re not the vivid, warped, images of golden hues burnt into his mind from the times he had seen his parents burst, no, they are something wholly his own, unique and beautiful the longer he stares at the flickering light._

_“I can make these at will?”_

_“You can make anything you want, darlin.”_

_He no longer wants to hide._

_And so he doesn’t._

_He begins to burn, and burn bright, cool tones giving way to fiery warmth seeping from his aura, leaving his shadow wrapped in flickering hues. Soon, he learns to embrace the flames dancing within him, to call upon them at will and listen to their cries when they desire to combust. Rather than fear, he finds himself feeling a sense of peace of mind, solace in the notion that he can one day fully become one with his flames._

_“Teach me how to make that helmet of yours, yea?”_

_“Armor too?”_

_“Oh, shit! There’s armor?”_

_And if going back to being normal meant giving up on the one thing that made him feel special, whole, well . . . he would vow to never be normal, again._

**

Chillingly stale loneliness crawls up his body, itching against the back of his neck, prickling his skin till he can’t help but squirm. And, although he desperately tries to hide his displeasure behind relaxed smiles and semi entertained laughter, his ability to keep up his act slowly wanes the longer he’s forced to remain upon the couch. His thoughts run wild, unease settling in the pit of his stomach with every hesitant glance in Meis’s direction. Secretly, he hopes that he’ll be able to catch the other’s eye, steer him back towards their shared space if only to wrap his arms around that lithe waist once more, calming and soothing whatever fears the other might have. Whatever they’d happened upon earlier still lingers, the need to see things through eating away at every ounce of comfort the redhead hoped to find.

“Are they always this loud?”

“Nah, think it’s a special tonight or something.”

“How do you put up with this stuff?”

He can barely concentrate on the sound of the television, fake laughter filtering through whatever discussion the others are having, static like banter making his legs twitch. Active participation in Galo’s form of bonding (bless the man’s soul for even wanting to bond with the likes of them) was only a fraction of what Gueira needed, though the lighter atmosphere did prove to be refreshing. He just needed to get away, to burn despite not possessing his flames—to make some sense out of the rush of emotions filling his mind whenever he was within Meis’s presence.

“I’m gonna start cleaning up, okay?” The back of his throat stings, tongue going heavy, tone lowering to barely a whisper. He finds it hard to not take note of the way the firefighter acts around Lio, all soft edges and hushed tones, arm snaking around the smaller man’s shoulders to pull him close. And for once he wants to puke at the sheer intimacy of it all—the mere fact that their Boss has fallen head over heels for a man he hardly knew prior to any of this.

_‘At least wait till we’re all asleep.’_

He sighs in defeat, slowly making his way towards the kitchen with a few plates in hand, disregarding the chatter that follows in his wake. He concentrates on the sloshing of water, of dish soap foaming and the sound of the dishwasher kicking in, doesn’t even notice when the living room falls silent, the distinct sound of a bedroom door closing down the hall bringing him away from his thoughts. Whatever he’d hoped to achieve, any inkling of becoming closer to the man that fought for his kind tooth and nail, all but vanishes the instant he turns the lights off.

“Gueira,” he half laughs at himself, tone hardening around the lump forming deep within his throat. “You must really be a dumbass.” He mutters under his breath, sweeps his hands through unruly red locks, fixes his gaze on the hallway, on the closed doors that were open mere seconds before—on the silence that filters through the apartment despite it having been filled with pleasantries, with the makings of a family slowly coming together. 

Perhaps Meis had been right to ask why he even bothered. Surely he couldn’t care less about the firefighter, or the other members of Burning Rescue, so why was it he fixated so hard on protecting what little of a relationship he had with the once third in command, with Lio for that matter. He reaches for a pack of cigarettes left behind from Lio, makes his way to the balcony, slamming the glass door shut behind himself only to sink down hard onto the concrete, breathing humid air and puffs of smoke into his lungs the instant he’s alone. “Dammit, Meis, just what the fuck am I doing wrong?”

Two puffs, three puffs, the air around the small patio turning stagnant with each inhale and every exhale he happens to take. He shrugs his jacket around his shoulders, buries his chin into fake leather like his life depends upon it, subtle chills running down his spine the longer he remains outside. He shoves the butt of the cigarette onto the floor, huddles further into his jacket.

Before lighting another, the redhead wanders back into the apartment as quietly as he can, tip-toeing to the fridge where he retrieves a large bottle, ever so carefully scurrying back through the apartment before slipping out onto the balcony once more. Settling down onto the floor, he rests his back against the wall, head lulling to the side. Another survey of a broken cityscape under the blanket of a darkening sky occupies him for a simple second, flashing lights and the sound of cars zooming past, ghosts walking the streets vanishing into the night. In that second everything around him ceases to exist, numbness cradles him, instantly hooking into the fibers of his being, pulling and pushing him in different directions. Desperate lips rest against the rim of the bottle and he welcomes the familiar sting on the back of his throat, chilled vodka cooling him from the inside out.

_‘It hurts.’_

A hole had been left within him when the flames fled, a hole that now expanded beyond its original bounds just earlier in the evening, one that threatened to tear him apart if he didn’t act. His muscles tighten unconsciously, though he tries his hardest to relax. With each sip, descent into the emotional undertow quickened.

_‘Why the hell does he . . . How the hell can I . . . just . . what the fuck is going on?’_

His thoughts, overly loud and raging, ramble through his mind, but the only real noises he happens to hear are the lighting of a cigarette, the inhale of smoke, and the glass bottle clinking against the paved patio.

_‘What the fuck did I do wrong to make him feel like he can’t confide in me?’_

The emptier the bottle becomes, the more the redhead has to fight against his own anger, heated tears threatening to spill forth from the corners of his eyes, perverse loneliness reminding him of how he had waited far too long to make a life for himself—how he’d all but given up on ever finding happiness outside of being part of Mad Burnish. The more alcohol he consumes, the more he begins to wish the Promare had never left. Being pushed to burn faster, brighter, harder, was more comforting than the rejection of the one person he had assumed was his. He lets a chuckle escape from between his lips, laughter slowly overtaking him until his entire body shakes. “Thas wha yah get for f-f-f-fcukin’ assssumin she-it.”

Mentally kicking himself, Gueira begs the bottle for every drop before sloppily attempting to stand. The wrestling of his inner demons and his lonely heart push him to finally return inside, discarding the bottle into the trashcan before stumbling into the bathroom. Glancing in the mirror, he scrutinizes each piece of crimson hair out of place, every small imperfection on his face and arms, even the way his body appears long and lean, everything that potentially made him unwanted within the eyes of other. He grimaces, forces himself to look away, splashes chilled water on his cheeks in hopes of getting his thoughts in check.

_‘It’s . . . time for sleep. I don’t give a rat’s ass, anymore.’_

Switching off the light, he takes what feels like heavy, elongated, footsteps towards their room, mentally cursing his newfound inability to hold his liquor. 

**

_‘In one, out two . . . Concentrate on the beating of your heart.’_

Meis lets his mind cloud, keeps his gaze focused on the ceiling above, trails unsteady fingers across his chest to rest in the divot of his waist. The makings of a monster, roaring slurring curse words and venom, swirl inside of him, perverting his understanding of what's right and wrong, forcing him to double back and rethink everything he has said to his companion upon returning from being trapped behind whitened walls.

And, _oh_ , if he wasn’t a complete failure in the eyes of the redhead before, then surely he would be now. Every lasting impression of heated rage pouring from between his lips, every age long doubt he’d harnessed from the very day he left home, seemingly erupted in waves towards the unsuspecting second in command. He’s done far more to his companion than he likes to admit, and the mere thought of how the other was handling it all only sent a newfound wave of guilt coursing through his veins.

_‘Everything will be all right, this isn't how you want him to see you. He’ll understand, he has to understand. You won't lose him like you did with the others . . .’_

Gueira only wanted to help, only needed to see his friend smile, to be reassured that the dark haired man was okay—to see that their world hadn't just combusted between the metallic walls of a mechanical death trap. Gueira, sweet, ever boisterous, Gueira—the one individual that Meis fought tooth and nail to protect, to always see smiling and laughing even when times were tough.

And he'd gone and tossed caution to the wind with his childish melodrama, his need to pretend despite every bone in his body screaming for him to cave—to let the redhead sweep him up into his arms.

_‘Like hell he'll forgive you after all that.’_

Meis sighs, chews his bottom lip, rolls over until he's facing the wall and all he can focus on is the smallest of indents set deep into the wallpaper. It's been years since his last tantrum, years since he felt a need to hole himself up and lock away the key. And yet, here he is, doubt weighing upon his chest, poison oozing through his veins, the inner workings of demons screaming for him to give up.

For him to break down.

_‘Admit that you're wrong and let him in.’_

He doesn't know how long he lays upon the sheets, how long his heart pounds, or how long it takes for his breathing to even out, all he knows is that he's alone, afraid, tired and wanting to reach out and cradle what little of a chance he might have left to make the redhead happy. To make the man understand his faults, the very aspects of what make him tick. 

Why he was never quite worthy of being anything other than third in command.

Why he views himself as a failure.

_‘He's seen the worst of you, you can't hide yourself from him for much longer.’_

The sound of the door opening and closing draws him away from his thoughts, keeps him hyper aware of every footstep, every sluggish motion coming from his companion.

And he can't help but let his breath hitch, heat overtaking his cheeks, tears bristling despite all efforts to remain calm. 

Meis inhales through his nose, catches the faintest hint of alcohol mucking up the others aura, lets his breath wither and die somewhere deep within his throat. The urge to roll over, to face Gueira head on, plays within his mind, though he makes quick to shut the notion out. Rather, he takes to feigning sleep, evens out his breathing until his entire body hums, remains tucked beneath the comforter with his hand flat against his waist.

Calloused fingers reach for the edge of the comforter, pressured sighs making their way past Gueira’s lips upon peeling back the covers and sliding under with ease. Perhaps the alcohol had restored some of his usual confidence, or maybe his soul had simply had enough of the internal war, but gone were the constant whispers of self-loathing, the endless monsters digging their hands into his heart fading away to an unusual sense of calm. All he wants to do is prove that he cares—to show the once third in command that he isn’t worthless.

“Come’ere,” slurred speech sets in, beckoning, hypnotic and empowering. “Lessgo t’ sleep.”

Gueira's voice wafts over Meis’s shoulder, slurred and heavy, heated breath ghosting against pale skin. And it takes every ounce of restraint Meis has not to gasp, not to turn around and bury soon to be tear streaked cheeks against the other's chest. _‘This is all your fault, you did this to him.’_

He can feel the redhead's lithe frame through his clothes, tanned skin pushing up close to his back, slender arms tugging until they're so very close. Unbearably close. And he realizes, much to his dismay, that Gueira is shirtless.

“Ther’ we go, comfy.” The rumbling of Gueira’s voice against Meis’s shoulder sends a jolt straight through to his stomach. Even Meis knew that Gueira rarely drank, and yet the redhead wreaks of cheap liquor and doubt.

Meis wills himself to back up and into the other's space, allows for the redhead to pull and push until they're both situated and all he can focus on is the scent of cheap vodka and the way tufts of red spill out over his shoulder, edging in and out of focus the longer his companion remains close. 

“Hmm?” A musical hum resonates deep within Gueira’s throat, eyelashes fluttering in brief recognition to his companion’s hesitant touch. If only Meis knew, without Gueira having to fumble through words, just how much he wanted this, even if it proved to be the only thing Meis could offer. Any form of intimacy from the dark haired man was better than vast nothingness, and for the first time in weeks Gueira’s heart slows to a regular and calm beat, breath easing. A sigh escapes him as he slowly begins to slip further into that comforting hold, welcoming a half asleep state of mind. His muscles relax, body feeling heavier than his previous trek from the patio to the bathroom. An almost unforgiveable gravitational pull forces him partially onto his side as they settle together, weaving into their knotted position.Like a Spanish lullaby, the sounds of Meis’s breathing and the way his chilled body begins to cool down his own, are more than enough to inspire a peaceful night’s rest, one in which the redhead fully welcomed, and needed.

_‘ . . . what have I done to you, darlin . . .?’_

And it is with such a thought, fleeting yet heavy with emotion, that has Meis throwing every ounce of caution to the wind. Instinctively he rolls himself over until his head lulls against the redhead’s chest, until his legs all but wrap around his companion’s, drawing Gueira close, hand snaking its way up and into disheveled locks, tugging softly in hopes of garnishing any form of much needed sound from his companion.

"Hey, sleepyhead." Meis teases, whispers fragile words into tanned skin, hopes beyond belief that the sensation of his lips against Gueira's chest will keep the other focused, grounded. Under his breath he adds, “I want to make this right, Gueira.”

“You . . .” The redhead pauses, slowly processing how to form non-slurred words, quite frankly regretting drinking as much as he had before flopping down nonchalantly onto the bed. Minutes ago he’d yearned to become numb, now he wants nothing more than to feel every single sensation as that delicate hand traces circles across his skin. “You don’t . . .” Irritated with himself, he sighs before trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. “Look, honestly I just, I wanted to wind down.” Immediately he stops, catches himself wondering why he feels the need to try and lie. If ever someone truly knew him, it was Meis, and he would definitely call Gueira out on how this wasn’t his idea of ‘winding down’.

_‘What an idiot, since when have you ever willingly lied to him? You’ll just keep making shit worse.’_

Another deep sigh escapes his lips, gentle hands beckoning upon the bottom of Meis’s chin, wanting nothing more than for the dark haired man to finally look up at him. Crimson hues yearn to catch his companion’s darkened gaze, the need to truly see the man before him outweighing their past arguments. Emotions ablaze, moths to a flame, hummingbird heartbeats thrum through his chest the longer he waits. 

_“Meis.”_

Meis feels the gentle humming of his heart escalating into a frenzied rhythm, each beat bursting forth from within his chest at an alarming speed at the sweet sound of Gueira’s voice calling his name. Sweat clings to his hand where it remains placed upon the redhead’s back, fingers itching to touch every ounce of exposed flesh. Laying on the bed, hair a mess of darkened ink upon the sheets, arm curled tight about the redhead’s waist, every second that flashes before him being one more he wishes to cherish, one more reminder that he’s finally home. He sighs, teases plush skin against the redhead’s ribcage, brushes their hips close to maneuver himself into a more comfortable position. He sees nothing wrong with their current position, rather, he’s spent years wanting to secure himself between the arms of the other—years craving any form of contact other than a mere high five or hurried, chanced, touches between Freeze Force raids. 

And Meis knows that once he focuses on their surroundings he’ll be reminded of just how fast their world is truly going, of just how vulnerable he’s become when compared to the other.

_'You’re holding back, even I can tell that you’re hesitating.’_

The thought weaves through Meis’s mind, rests casually upon his lips though he dares not speak it aloud. Inner demons plague the taller man’s mind, the urge to comfort, the desire to explain himself despite knowing that’s the last thing the redhead needs. The overbearing need to prove that he hasn’t given up hope. That he wants whatever this is between them, whatever it might lead to and then some. Somewhere through it all, he lets their gazes meet, every little puzzle piece crashing together at an alarming rate the moment calloused hands seek out plush skin, whisper soft breath vibrating against the juncture of Meis’s shoulder and neck.

_‘I want him.’_

Gueira trails his fingers across Meis’s cheek, ever so slowly caressing over plush lips, heated path easing into darkened locks before casually bringing their foreheads together.

_‘I want him . . .’_

A deep gulp of air is the only sound he can conjure before brushing warm lips to cooler ones, hesitation still guarding him even in his current state. And that one taste, one fleeting touch, is all it takes before every ounce of Gueira’s being begins to shake with a howling hunger for more.

“Gueira . . . . you . . .” The once third in command fumbles, hardly has a chance to catch his breath let alone regain coherent thoughts, before he feels another subtle pressure against his lips, warmth seeping into his veins with every drawn out touch. The softest of pulls upon his back brings him ever closer, tugging every ounce of emotion into his throat, forcing him to choke back a heated gasp. The scent of aged vodka hits his nose, overpowering yet calming, making his mind cloud and his nerves sing. And he yearns, hell does he yearn, every ounce of his being surging with newfound life and need.

“I need you.”

Everything, just, vanishes.

Meis watches as Gueira pulls back, vivid red hues focusing on him and him alone, dopey smile overtaking his expression. The softest of blushes paints tanned skin, whether from embarrassment or the alcohol, he can’t quite say, nor does he want to know as the look suits his companion quite well. The once third in command finds himself laughing, unbridled giddiness taking over the second they part, wanting nothing more than to bring their lips together, again. His fingers play casually over semi-flushed skin, narrowing in on one particular spot he remembers as having been ticklish. He edges unbearably close to his companion, slotting their legs together until his hips knock against Gueira’s, no longer concerning himself with the what if’s, but rather the could have’s.

“What makes ya think ya can stop?” His own voice sounds foreign, words slurring together from frustration, from sheer happiness in knowing that he has a chance. That Gueira has given him the smallest of windows to act. He sets his sight on plush lips, on the way Gueira’s chest heaves a frantic rhythm (up down up down), on the way his own heart pulses deadly fast against his ribs. Wills himself to make that adorable blush spread to the tips of the redhead’s ears.

_‘I need this.’_

Meis leans in until he tastes alcohol upon his lips, until they're joined together once more, until he finds himself hesitantly brushing his tongue against Gueira’s bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to be accepted. _‘Please just let me have this, even if it means nothing to him come tomorrow morning.’_

They settle further against each other, moving in tandem with the push and pull rhythm of gravity, the way their legs weave around the others, Gueira’s hands traversing a path up and down Meis’s back, fingers landing upon the curve of his hip only to move beneath the hem of his sleep pants. Everything the redhead has ever desired, every stolen glance, each held back touch, suddenly becomes reality in the way he cradles Meis close. How he wishes he had this much confidence just hours before, but there had been something in his heart that would not allow him to go beyond Meis’s requests. And now, now the alcohol calls to him, leads him down a path he hopes he won’t later regret.

The taste of Meis’s tongue against his own, sweet nectar, sends shivers racing down his spine, surging into an uncontrollable all-consuming fire that threatens to tear him apart from the inside out. A wailing, needy, flame and, just as the Promare had forced him to burn brighter, so too does the sound of his companion’s throaty moans echoing within their shared space. 

“I told ya,” Gueira growls, teasing tone a deep heated whisper. “I’ll help ya forget.”

They briefly part, noses barely touching, breath mingling between them, before Gueira’s lips find Meis’s once more with tender, languid, strokes. He pauses, presses an open mouthed kiss to his companion’s chin, teases agonizingly slow nips and licks down Meis’s neck, marveling in the way the dark haired man squirms against him—teeth bite here, his tongue carefully leaving its own wet marks up a slender neck there, every action giving way to heightened sighs, pleasured gasps. Gueira smooths his nails down undiscovered flesh, fingers teasing below his companion’s navel, tickling sensitive skin in their wake. 

Had the time been perfect to admit all the thoughts running around his head, words would have poured over his lips like water to the edge of a cliff. One day, perhaps, he could prevent himself from fumbling. One day, he would have the opportunity to finally admit his love for the man. Heavy scent of liquor pervading his mind, carnal desires shadowing his every move, he brings his free hand up to glide across Meis’s chest, thumbing over pert nipples, eliciting the sweetest hiss from his companion’s lips. Each quick, deliberate, movement of his hand against tender skin, every intake of breath they shared, reminds him that this isn’t a dream, not in the slightest chance. This was real. Years of pledging tightly woven friendship seemed to have finally steered him into his most desired position. Even the looming fear of rejection barely reared its head as the redhead basked in their meshing auras— how their bodies seemed to fit perfectly together, how he deathly ached to aid in helping Meis forget.

How he desperately wants to forget things, himself.

Meis takes pleasure in the way their bodies mold together until even he can’t tell where he begins and the other ends. All he knows is that, in this one little moment, he wants nothing more than to devour and be devoured, to give and to take, to let the redhead do as he pleases, to break him beyond belief. Gueira’s lips upon his skin, semi chaffed, hauntingly delicate, teasing nips caressing up and down his neck biting here, laving over a particularly sensitive spot, there. Chills run the course of Meis’s spine, coherent thoughts all but vanishing from his mind, rushed out breath escaping from between kiss swollen lips. He’s lost amongst the ebb and flow, the push and pull, the need to burn despite not possessing his flames. And, he’d be naïve not to think that a very small part of himself wants to be found. Wants to be cherished.

Meis rolls his hips on instinct, desiring more friction, waiting for the other’s next move with bated breath. Claims the redhead's lips once more before drawing back, vivid gaze focusing on bright red hues. “ . . . anything . . .” He pauses, wets his lips, draws a steading breath in and out, welcomes the redhead back without hindrance, opening his mouth to let him inside. Relishes in the sensation of being consumed, of drowning in the other’s presence. Meis gives in to the harshest of waves, warmth coiling deep within the pit of his stomach. “ . . . please . . .” Drawn out whispers hitch deep within his throat, and he takes the time to trace his nails down the expanse of the redhead’s back, ever so casually scratching the softest of marks into tanned skin, drawing a thin line back up to rest against Gueira’s waist. Every ounce of pain he’d felt prior seemingly vanishes the longer he remains locked against his companion’s slender frame. “Make me forget . . . . make me whole.” Raw emotion tears him apart bit by painstaking bit, ripping into his throat the longer he holds back another guttural moan. Gueira’s hands traverse the expanse of his body, lighting his skin on fire wherever they happen to fall. The harshest of blushes overtakes his expression, mirrored only within his companion’s gaze, drawing heat and tension into his chest, forcing him to gasp.

He’s not himself, though he hardly minds, can’t quite put forth the effort to feel the need to express displeasure despite knowing they’ll both wake come morning quite possibly regretting everything they’ve done. Rather, he takes to tracing Gueira’s pulse point with his tongue, teeth scraping semi tanned skin, nipping playfully against the redhead’s Adam’s apple. Gueira wants him, Gueira needs him, and he is more than willing to oblige. More than eager to bend and break if it means making the other his—if it means allowing for the lines of their relationship to blur beyond belief.

Because, when have they ever been perfect? When have they ever followed the rules?

A profound sense of calm washes over him, settling in a pitter patter of butterflies deep inside his stomach, warming him from the inside out. Meis’s cheeks burn, heat rising to color his skin a healthy shade of peach, darkened eyelashes fluttering the longer he takes to concentrating on Gueira’s presence surrounding him, engulfing him in the scent of liquor and something that wholly belongs to his companion.

No, Meis is not himself, nor does he wish himself to be.

“Gueira, please . . .”

Another kiss to tender skin, another run of slender fingers down the redhead’s back, teasing a one way trail to linger upon the other’s waistline, thumb brushing under soft fabric to barely touch Gueira’s hip.

_‘I need this. I need you.’_

Low moans resonate at the back of Gueira’s throat, anticipation building for his companion’s next move. A particularly harsh bite has him pressing his hips, hard, against slender ones, deliberately rolling his pelvis and waist upward if only to seek release. He cranes his head back, neck exposed, if only to beg for those sharpened teeth to once more graze his skin, knowing just how invigorating the bite would be for him.

After years of running, years of being alone and doing his best to simply maintain his own meaningless life, the nails scraping down his back were more than welcomed, they were necessary. Snapping his hips, Gueira brings his mouth once more to Meis’s, tongue dancing around tongue, puffs of breath passing between them. He moves his hands to slowly push down the barrier of baggy sleep pants, only managing to get them half-way off before a pleading moan echoes through the room.

“Gueira . . .” And it’s all Meis can manage to say around the heavy fog of need pervading his mind. He refuses to think about how things could turn from right to wrong. Knows deep down that there’s no room to consider the implications of how they might both feel come morning. 

“Ya dun have'ta beg,” Gueira whispers, hands moving up to pull at the bottom of Meis’s shirt. “Never have'ta beg for anything from me.”

Meis latches onto Gueira’s words like a vice, collects every letter, fixates on each syllable, keeps them close to his person while dangerous lips traverse heated trails over his skin. While calloused hands make waste of his shirt, tugging the offending fabric up and over his head, knowing fingers take to exploring every inch of exposed skin, nails scraping against his hips before once more dipping down low beneath his waistline. And, oh, the noises Meis makes during such efforts, pleas the likes of which he’s never dreamed of, desperate intakes of breath the longer Gueira threads his heart strings along in their little game of cat and mouse.

“Gueira, _please_.”

The slightest of burns runs its way up Meis’s shoulder, tingling up the expanse of his sling, momentarily forcing him to draw back, hiss leaving his mouth before he can protest. His vision blurs, pupil dilating, sheer horror radiating through his being. He freezes.

_‘Not now, please not now.’_

And yet, Meis knows his body more than anyone, more than life itself, can feel the deadly tug of muscles spasming beneath his skin. The uneven pull of fabric as he registers the roughest of pangs racing straight through his chest, the way his sling manages to force a pained gasp from his mouth mid kiss, body tensing at the slightest hints of discomfort pulling upon his arm. His jaw clenches, harshest of gasps pressing upon his lips though he tries his hardest to keep from reacting. Takes to pulling his arm back, fist balling up against his side, knuckles whitening the longer he attempts to hold out through the pain. And he knows the implications of stopping, regrets the very moment he’s found himself slowly easing away to stare wide eyed at his companion’s face. Can see the wires working within Gueira’s mind, the endless guilt taking root to push doubt into his response. Knows without a doubt that he’s messed up again, or worse, ruined what little chances he’s ever had of becoming closer to the other.

Of finally moving their cautious relationship forward.

“Meis, if this is too much for you,” Gueira pauses, ever so slowly sobering, braces himself for what may come. “If you’re in pain.” He brings their foreheads together once more, whispers words he might end up regretting, “Meis, we don’t have to do this.”

Meis lowers his head to rest against Gueira’s shoulder, smooths his lips over tan skin, murmurs an apology, feather soft in hopes of regaining that much needed heat. He doesn’t want to stop, yet he can’t keep his mind from reeling, nerves tingling everywhere they happen to still touch. Doesn’t want their chance to slip away for fear of waking up alone come morning. 

“This isn’t your fault,” he pauses, manages to collect his breath, attempts to sound anything but frazzled, pained. “We don’t have to stop.” Another elongated pause, tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip, darkened gaze searching the expanse of Gueira’s expression for signs of acceptance. “I don’t want to stop.” An air of hesitation overtakes his tone, one that goes against everything he’s hoped to convey, and it feels as if he’s walking on needles while trying to push his doubt aside. The inner workings of his companion’s mind appear plain and clear upon the redhead’s face, crimson hues clouding over, mouth edging into a frown that threatens to rip straight through Meis’s heart.

“Gueira . . .” His voice lilts, “please don’t stop, not now. Not because of me.” The dry sting of tears build up along Meis’s eyelashes, pooling against pale skin to fall slowly down his cheeks. He’s fighting a losing battle, and his worst opponent is himself. The sling upon his arm catches against sweat stained sheets, itching close to his elbow, drawing heated and heavy upon healing wounds he wishes he never even received. “I need this, need you.”

Creeping guilt burrows through Gueira’s chest, shame building with the realization of how utterly careless he’s been during their time together. And while his companion’s voice registers within his mind, the implications behind his words cease to have meaning. 

_‘This isn’t your fault.’_

_‘We don’t have to stop . . . I don’t want to stop.’_

Softly shaking his head, the redhead steadies himself upon his elbows, attempting to soak up what little was left of their moment together. A heavy, regretful, sigh pierces the air as his eyelids flutter shut. If only Meis knew how much he needed him, too. How he wanted to give him whatever he wanted, how Gueira wanted to allow him to have his way even if it meant it was with someone else. How Gueira wanted to follow him to the end of their days, even if it meant hiding in the shadows and watching him flourish.

Oh, how he wants to give into the pleas as the devil dances with heavy feet against his skull and spine. And, damn, does he want Meis in every possible way.

Hesitantly, the man clears his throat and attempts to muster a soft smile. “M-Meis. . .” Gueira’s voice shakes as he settles himself down onto the mattress, looking up toward the drab ceiling if only to find focus on something other than his companion. One hand moves to pull up his own boxers while the other untangles itself from long blue hair, the glaze from the alcohol morphing into a frustrated varnish, coating the entirety of his red eyes with stinging salt.

“I can’t, we can’t, not with knowing you’re hurting,” Gueira whispers. “I just can’t.”

The way he’d come to survive the warzone without a scratch weighs heavy on his mind. Likewise, the memories of having seen his companion in that hospital bed, bound by various tubes and wires just so the doctors could give him a fighting chance, sit ill within his stomach. It should have been him. He should have been the one who had to cling to life, him, the reckless one. He’d never considered himself worthy of living until he’d nearly lost the other half of himself. Now, seeing his reason for breathing and the ill attempt at masking the substantial amount of hurt, Gueira knew he was being selfish if he did choose to continue. He gives one last look of adoration towards the once third in command before gently planting a kiss to Meis’s forehead.“I refuse to hurt you.”

And everything comes to a grinding halt.

Meis registers every word, watches the way in which his companion’s expression shifts from one of lust to one of doubt, regret, hurt. A thousand and one emotions burn behind once lively hues now turned dim, hollow. His arm hurts, that was normal for such injuries, he would push through (hell be damned he would) if it meant spending just one night with the man beneath him. He’s experienced far worse, has learned to deal with far greater self inflicted casualties to last him a lifetime, and yet he cannot seem to wrap his mind around the notion that he’s quite possibly been turned down. That he's suddenly not worth the efforts of drink induced lust let alone the desires of someone he's craved for far too long to count.

_“ain’t nobody gonna want ya now, love.”_

Ghosts of memories past filter though his mind, his entire body stiffening, breath escaping his lips in quickening gasps. Visible eye narrowing, clouding over with chilled loathing the longer he stares at the redhead. The longer he imagines himself as nothing more than an alcohol induced fling gone wrong. The more he places himself in his body of the past. And, fuck if he doesn't want to kick Gueira's shins in, make the redhead weep, to regret his decision of ever coming onto him. Of getting his hopes up no matter how small they might have been. No matter how much the redhead had had to drink.

“You . . .” Meis’s tone comes out a garbled mess, lips working around sounds that threaten to tear his throat apart," . . . . .out.” Venom etches into his voice, curses forming within his mind. “Get out!” His back is suddenly to the wall, though he can’t remember having moved an inch. Spasms rack through his veins, hand coming up to clutch at his chest, fingers tightening till his knuckles whiten. Fog clouds his mind, hazy doubt settling deep into his soul, eye focusing hard upon the redhead still laying before him. Meis tells himself he’ll regret this come morning, that he’ll wake up wanting to apologize, that everything will go back to being normal. To being just right. Gulps down every last ounce of hope he has left and promptly tosses it all out the window. “Get the fuck out!”

Everything hurts, everything bleeds. His temperature runs high, face heating, tears streaking down his cheeks despite wanting nothing more than to appear angered, upset, anything but a weeping mess upon disheveled sheets.

“Leave, now.”

While he would normally be more than compelled to fire back, Gueira suddenly finds himself empty. His insides turn to glass, frozen and brittle, no longer yielding any of the fire that once thrived there. Shame slowly locks her arms around his neck, tightly squeezing just above his Adam’s apple. Lady guilt restrains his limbs, preventing him from obeying Meis’s commands. Open insubordination was part of him, but this was the one time he wished he could follow orders. The way Meis moved away from him so quickly drew any last piece of hope he’d managed to hide beneath the surface. Gueira turns his back to the man with the long, soft, flowing azure hair, sits upon the edge of the bed collecting his thoughts before he hears Meis's voice again.

“Get out.”

Messy red hair falls into whatever place it likes as Gueira grabs for his pants beneath the blankets, finding his shirt on the floor, all but turning on his heels to accommodate Meis’s harsh requests.

Halting at the door, Gueira finds himself mindlessly looking at the carpet. “You’re sure about this?” Clenching the door handle he turns to face Meis, silence meeting him the instant he catches the other’s gaze. And when he receives no response, the clicking of the door gears back into place solidifying what he should have understood before, there was no way in Hell that he would ever be anything but alone. 

He leaves half his heart behind that night, lost to the darkness of their shared room and his own insecurities.


	6. The long Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments, heart to hearts and make ups.

_His back slams hard against the wall, wind knocking out from his lungs, head connecting with aging brick and concrete. Labored breaths escape between cracked lips, blood pooling upon his tongue, the sweet taste of metal seeping down his throat with every desperate gasp. Every inch of his body burns, intense flames thrumming through his veins, warmth pooling deep inside his gut. He wants to scream, to kick and thrash about until his vocal cords run raw and he can’t possibly move any longer, but the shadows looming around him make certain he cannot move about. He clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white, painted nails digging in deep to the flesh of his palms, tries to count back from ten in hopes of remaining focused._

_There are hands around his waist, blunt nails digging hard into his hipbones, calloused fingers drawing bruises into pale skin the likes of which will last for weeks. A heavy stench of weed filters through his nose, week old tobacco mixed with booze jumbling his thoughts. He gags back the urge to puke, bile burning his throat, eyes watering._

_“Ain’t nobody gonna want ya now, love.”_

Sweat beads upon Meis’s forehead, chills racing down his spine the longer he attempts to keep himself from shaking. There’s a ticking time bomb about to go off, one that threatens to eradicate every ounce of self-worth he’s managed to gain while having been nestled up against the one person he might honestly love. Pure and intense rage swirls around his mind, the harshest of curses settling upon his lips with every breath he forgets to take. 

He is the worst type of human imaginable, and he knows it.

_‘I won’t fucking hurt you . . . .’_

_‘ . . . won’t hurt you . . . .’_

_‘ . . . hurt you . . .’_

He’d watched with feigned interest as the redhead slowly pulled his shirt on, tired legs carrying him sheepishly over to the doorway, head hung low in defeat. He’d cast a wayward glance towards his own clothes, how his pants lay strewn between the sheets, shirt ruffled upon the floor, and immediately tensed at the slightest hint of a chill running over his shoulders, every ounce of warmth having vanished the moment Gueira moved away—the minute his companion chose to listen to his venomous commands rather than remain by his side.

_‘Can’t even put up a fight to stay with you, who would want to though, useless thing that you’ve become.’_

Hungry demons claw their way beneath his skin, wrapping thick tendrils around his neck, invading his airways until he’s forced to gag—until every ounce of his being hums with profound unease, regret, and a tension so deadly he’s finally unable to stop the shaking from taking over. Meis runs his nails up and down the remainder of his arm, over his sling, back down to rest upon where his elbow meets coarse fabric, nothingness filling the void that would have been his forearm. He inhales sharply through his nose, exhales heated rage past his lips. Hisses in pain the second he attempts to move, sling catching tight upon healing flesh.

_‘Good for nothing, useless, half of what you once were.’_

He counts to ten, waits for the sure sign of feet padding down the hall before slowly gathering his clothes, hugging loose fitting fabric close to his chest, familiar scent of off brand cologne forcing him to wince. They’d been so close . . .

_‘Couldn’t even call him back, couldn’t tell him how you feel . . .’_

He takes to slowly fixing the sheets, puffing pillows and patting down what little evidence remains of their previous actions—goes through the motions of cleaning up, of slowly tugging his boxers over bony hips, painted fingernails caressing the smallest of birth marks just above his hip. Lazily he shuffles over to the room’s only mirror, gazes with half interest at his reflection—a man devoid of an honest expression stares back, lips red and kiss swollen, hair in disarray, gaze a darkened veil beneath heavy bangs.

_‘What were you hoping would happen?’_

He runs his hand over the scar adorning his face, pokes and prods tender skin around his eye, grimaces back a hiss the instant his nail strikes a bruise. 

_‘Just look at yourself, who are you even?’_

Meis chucks on his shirt, struggling the instant plush fabric hits thick bandages, grappling with his sleeve until he can finally get his arm through, inwardly cursing the day his (their) entire world changed. Giving himself another once over in the mirror (realizing that there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to make himself look remotely decent), he makes his way out the door and into the hall. He doesn’t think twice about whether or not the others heard their little argument, barely registers the fact that there are eyes upon him the instant he steps foot inside the kitchen. Swears he can feel an intense pressure building against his back the longer he remains near the fridge, hand clutching the handle, mind working a mile a minute as to whether or not he made the right choice in stepping out.

“Ahh, didn’t think you’d still be up.” Galo’s voice resonates like sandpaper through his ears and he can’t help but notice the way the blue haired man sidesteps into his space, concern etching its way into his aura—in the way he all but hovers but doesn’t touch. “Got some leftovers from dinner if you’re hungry, might be a bit late to eat, not like it ever stopped me before, though.” He gives a wry grin, grabs for a bottle of Gatorade—lime, the only flavor Meis hates—pretends to not notice how frazzled the other is, how the once third in command radiates grief.

“Fuck off, Thymos.”

The only words that come to mind, malice lacing every letter, venom poisoning his tone. Meis moves away from the fridge with a cocky edge to his step, bats the Gatorade jug away from Galo’s reach just for emphasis, doesn’t even register the firefighter’s silent noise of protest though the pang of the jug hitting tiled flooring resonates throughout the kitchen long after Meis has stepped out.

**

Meis sets his sights on nothing in particular, takes to partially watching the darkened sky giving way to a few lonely stars, pale moon hanging low behind a sheet of clouds. His legs twitch, unease settling within his stomach, poison tendrils churning deep within his chest, burning every ounce of confidence he has left into ash. 

_‘Just another good for nothing fuck up.’_

He lowers himself to the concrete floor, rests his head against the patio door and sighs. He’s beginning to reconsider everything, if he’s good enough, whether or not he was even meant to find peace of mind with the redhead to begin with—if he has any right in hoping that Gueira will ever forgive him, let alone speak to him, again. He rings his hand through unruly blue black fringe, takes note of how his legs have yet to stop twitching, how the beating of his heart remains frantic. On instinct, he peers out between the patio railings, lets the cityscape lull him into a false sense of calm, takes a shuddering breath and once more focuses on the redhead, on how he can’t quite get the man out of his mind no matter how hard he tries.

‘ _He couldn't have gone far.’_

And he knows this to be true, can feel it within his bones that the redhead hasn’t ventured off into the unknown just yet—that he’s at least remained close enough should Meis decide to reach out, to let him know that everything wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t messed up. 

That he still wants Gueira by his side.

Another quick scan of the street below has him catching sight of a small black shadow making its way out from the complex towards the park, the slightest inkling of slumped shoulders giving way to the individual’s current mood. “Gueira . . .” For a split second Meis considers shouting down to the retreating figure, calling them back up, wrapping his arm about their shoulders and pulling them into a loose hug. Debates upon whether or not he’d whisper apologies into the redhead’s ear, wonders if the other would even accept such words after everything they’ve been through over the past few hours.

_‘He’ll understand, he always does.’_

“You do realize going outside in the cold is frowned upon after being released from the hospital, right?” Lio’s remark throws him off guard, heavy accent of sleep clinging to the smaller man’s every word, in the way he slouches against the glass door with his hands poised upon his hips, fuzzy slippers adorning his feet. Disheveled off blonde locks frame his face, soft strands pushing their way over dark eyelashes, blending unevenly with lavender hues, and he looks almost domestic standing in the doorway, warm glow surrounding his petite frame. A look, Meis realizes, suits the former leader more than he’d like to admit. 

Lio regards the other with raised eyebrows, mouth quirking into the smallest of frowns, and when Meis remains silent he hesitantly pushes forward. “Look, I know I’m not the leader of Mad Burnish anymore but that doesn’t mean we aren’t still family, that I don’t still care about your wellbeing.” He sighs, casts a wayward glance at the ground below before leveling his stare upon Meis, “and, last I checked, I didn’t think you had a death wish. At least, not anymore.” He eases off the door, extends his hand out for the once third in command to take if he so wishes, notes how the taller man has yet to stop shivering despite showing no signs of wanting to come back inside. The blonde licks his lips, mules over what he wants to say and how he should say it. Lowers himself to Meis’s level.

“You can talk to me, Meis.” He pauses, gently accepts the hesitant weight of Meis’s hand within his own, weaves their fingers together tight so that the other can’t run away. And the look he gives his former General, one of complete love and trust, has the once third in command nearly sobbing.

“I don’t want you out here suffering alone.”

Pain, doubt, regret, confusion, every little emotion that Meis has tried so hard to bottle up seemingly pours out the instant Lio’s hand touches his. He bites his bottom lip, chews worry marks into once kiss swollen flesh, cringes against the onslaught of prickly heat bottling up within his gut. Lio’s fingers against his own are soothing—solid—a means of keeping him grounded despite every ounce of his being ultimately attempting to combust.

“Boss, how did you know with Galo?” The question brings a newfound wave of guilt to the dark haired man’s conscious, tone wavering, tears daring to spill forth. “How were you so sure that what you both had wasn’t just a fleeting moment?” He means their time together fighting Kray and yet his words imply another notion, one that even he hasn’t fully grasped yet between the two. “How did you really know he meant something to you?”

Lio holds his breath, watches intently as Meis works through each question, quite possibly already knowing what the blonde will say in response. He brings his General’s hand to rest against his lips, brushes over each knuckle with gentle kisses, marvels at how smooth the other’s skin is despite always appearing rough. 

“I just knew, call it odd, but for once in my life I felt something calling out to me other than the need to survive or the Promare.” The former leader responds, casually drawing Meis up with each word until he can lead the other into the living room. “But, you two are different, you have history that Galo and I might never have, at least not for some time.” His tone goes soft, though Meis catches a hint of bitterness beneath the understanding façade, keeps his gaze focused on the blonde as he perches upon the couch, ever so slowly patting the cushion beside himself. 

“Meis, seeing you in that hospital bed,” Lio collects his thoughts, pushes back the lump forming within his throat, “not knowing if you would wake up, if you’d make it.” Another pregnant pause, lavender gaze catching that of a far off darkened stare, “I can’t see that look of not knowing upon his face, again, Meis.” He gives Meis’s hand a comforting squeeze, draws the other close until their shoulders touch and he can rest his head against the taller man’s arm. “You’re his world, or have you forgotten that already?”

“It’s hard to see sometimes,” Meis takes a moment, leans against the back cushion of the couch, runs shaky fingers through a mess of blue black. “I just don’t want to disappoint him, Boss, not after everything he’s been through.” Heat blossoms upon his cheeks, tears flowing freely, inner walls chipping away until his dam all but breaks. “I don’t want him realizing how pitiful I’ve become.” He fixes Lio with a look that mirrors defeat, tired gaze overpowering his usual confidence, tone wavering, “he just up and left like I’d destroyed his entire world in one go. How can I expect him to forgive me if I can’t even forgive myself?” Meis falls silent, works around the lump forming within his throat before hesitantly continuing. 

“Boss, I can’t lose him, I just . . . fuck, _Lio_ , I can’t let the one good thing that’s come into my life, go. I lo—”

“I know you do, but he might not.”

They lapse into comfortable silence, Meis resting his head upon Lio’s shoulder while the shorter man trails delicate fingers through blue black locks. He waits until the once third in command falls asleep, gentle pull of dreams lulling his expression into much needed peace.

_“Meisies, one day you’ll find the person who’s right for you, and believe me sweetie . . . you’ll know just how special you truly are.”_

_He’s five and his mother rocks him back and forth upon her knee, gentle hands weaving flowers through uneven blue black hair that falls gracefully down his back. She’s wearing an orange sundress, one size too large for her petite frame, and her collarbones jut out at just the right angle for concern, but Meis doesn’t mind. His mother is beautiful and he’ll tell the entire world if he has to._

_“But, I’ve already got you, momma.”_

_She laughs, tone music soft, pastel hues glistening as she takes in the sight of her only child beaming back up at her._

_“Well then, I guess you’ll be just fine.”_

_She leans down to blow a raspberry against his cheek, delights in the way he giggles, lightly shoving her until she latches her arms about his waist in a tight hug._

_He takes after his mother, same build, overly energetic aura, eyes that light up the sky every time he’s in the room. Loves the way she plays with fire, casts shadows upon the walls at night, tells tales of different worlds with princes and princesses, dragons._

_He’s six when his mother vanishes._

_Twenty when he meets the one person that he wants by his side for the rest of his life. And he can only wonder what his mother would think if she met the man, hopes deep down that she’d approve._

**

_‘Can I really be blamed for not wanting to argue with him?’_

After all, that was all Gueira had ever known, the need to fight and scrap against any and every piece of the Earth, feet and fists constantly exhausted, lungs aching for peaceful rest and grounded roots. He’d hoped beyond hope that things would change after losing his flames, that he’d find some form of peace upon becoming ‘human’ again, and yet it still bothered him just how far his companion’s words could cut. He should have done something other than silently walk away, shouldn’t have let Meis’s words sting as much as they had—should have, could have, would have, the pain plastered upon his companion’s face before he’d left only helping to fuel Gueira’s insecurities. Replaying those crucial moments in his head, had he even hesitated? Had he taken it upon himself to show Meis that he wouldn’t back down—that he wouldn’t let the man wallow in his own guilt, alone?

_‘The fuck am I even doing, this is ridiculous. He should know I’d never leave him.’_

Being ripped into a million pieces, nerves severing and being plucked out one by one, would have been easier than experiencing the whirlwind of emotions Gueira was putting himself through. ‘ _But he thinks I did, doesn’t he?’_

He takes refuge within the stale smelling stairway, allows for memories of the past hour to filter through his mind in chopped, sporadic bursts, flashes of their bodies creating sparking friction, smoky caresses of their lips bringing about whispered moans, images that only further crush into his chest forcing him to hold back a gasp.

_‘Alone, you’ll always be alone. Good for nothing couldn’t even save your family.’_

He weaves calloused hands through disheveled bangs, forehead coming to rest against his palms, remorse dripping off his skin in tiny beads of sweat. What sort of man would fail so harshly at explaining himself to the one he loves?

_‘He shouldn’t have to suffer alone.’_

While Gueira had no experience in being with another romantically, he was constantly finding himself lured in by the dark haired man’s gravity. The sun seemed to rise and set with the man, likewise Gueira was beginning to realize that Meis controlled his everything, even the innermost makings of his mind. Longing to have more than little stolen moments, a normal friendship was not going to settle his heart or put his mind at ease. The Promare vanishing might have left his body empty and cold to the bone, but he knew without a doubt what would keep his soul warm and alive.

Endless nights full of laughter and warm musings had been the only things to get him through the hell of days spent on the run. Nestled next to each other in the moonlight, hidden from the world, but never from each other, they’d managed to share far too many memories to count, both allowing the other a glimpse into their past secrets and lives. Now? Now, Gueira fumbled through staggering breaths and fleeting words as he glanced over the shadow of Galo’s apartment door wondering if he should go back inside or not.

If he was even welcome for that matter.

_‘What do I say? Will he even listen to me?’_ Gueira’s endless thoughts refuse to back down, shoulders tensing the longer he stares at the beckoning walls of the apartment complex. He takes a few hesitant steps forward, trembling hands reaching out to unlock the door, fingers delicately twisting the knob before tiptoeing inside. 

Lingering chills from walking outside cling to his clothes producing newfound shivers and the urge to crawl back into bed, the desire to wrap his arms around Meis causing his heart to flutter. He takes a few more steps down the hall, pausing only upon spotting hints of blue movement from the patio balcony. Heavy shoulders drop in synch with a heated sigh as the redhead finds his way through the dark apartment only to hear the patio door open and close, padded steps carefully making their way towards him.

“Mornin’.” Galo takes note of the redhead’s expression, the darkened rings beneath his eyes and the way he carries himself just shy of falling over. “You good?” 

Gueira nods, gives the firefighter a small thumbs up. He looks around the living room, eyes squinting past Galo towards the hallway where the blonde’s door remains shut. “Boss not up yet?”

“Well, no, not exactly, busy night.” Running a hand through his hair, Galo ponders the easiest way to continue upon catching the slightest hint of worry in the redhead’s tone. He rubs his hands over his arms as if suddenly cold, sheepish expression taking over his features, “I guess Meis was, ya’know, kind of upset so Lio came out to talk with him. When I got up a bit ago I actually . . . uh, helped move them into . . . bed?” He trails off, attempts to look everywhere but the redhead’s face.

"Galo, what do you mean by that?" 

Though it was clear he had nothing to worry about when it came to Lio, Gueira couldn’t help but seethe at the thought of someone else being where he should be. Jaw muscles tighten, pulse quickening with a boiling rage as visible twitches overtake his fingers and toes, taunting his temper as he stands burning a hole into the far wall with a dead stare.

“That they slept together . . .?” Galo’s eyes widen, mouth hanging open and closing just as quick as he realizes exactly what he’s said out loud. “But, I mean, not in that way!” He lets out a cautious laugh, far too loud for his own good, shrinks back against the wall as if burned. “They just slept.”

“Galo, don’t.” Resentment blossoms within Gueira’s bones, pain decorating the darkness he feels himself falling into. The swelling of unfamiliar emotion, jealousy, poked and prodded at him from the inside out, whispering in his ear every fear he’d long since hoped to forget. “You don’t have to say anything else.” Gueira mindlessly wanders to the patio door, slowly opens and closes the latch effectively shutting himself outside, alone.

******

The first thing Lio notes upon waking up is the curtain of dark blue tendrils cascading over his shoulder, the way each soft strand lights upon his pale skin, tickling against his chin. Meis remains tucked against his side, head nestled upon his chest, arm loose about the smaller man’s waist, the softest of smiles gracing his lips and, for once, he resembles his former self. Lio brushes a hand through the other’s bangs, lets his fingers lightly trail over the makings of a scar all the way down to rest against Meis’s neck. His third in command, his responsibility, and he’d gone and allowed for such a disastrous occurrence to take place. He’d helped walk his companion right into the hands of a maniac.

_‘This was all my fault, you didn’t deserve any of this. Neither of you did.’_

He’d spent the vast majority of time trying to get Meis to calm down, attempting to ease the former General’s doubt, hoping beyond hope that the other would feel comfortable enough to sleep. They’d spent hours talking, Meis crying more than Lio had ever witnessed, heated expression rendering the former leader helpless, unsure of his ability to soothe his companion in such a fragile state of mind.

_“I can’t lose him, not over something as petty as this. Not after we almost died, after I couldn’t protect him against that—that . .”_

Meis’s tone had been soft, tender yet broken beyond belief, without a doubt hurting just like the man himself. Pain had oozed from every pour upon coming into contact with the former leader, and although he’d been hesitant to open up, unsure of how the shorter man would take his vulnerability when all he’d ever witnessed was his strength, he’d quickly found himself settling against the smaller man’s side. He’d warmed the instant Lio held his arms out, allowing for the taller man to fall into his grasp, head nestling against a slender shoulder, fingers coming to tug tight upon the other’s shirt.

_“I shouldn’t have let him know I was in pain, shouldn’t have shown him how weak I’ve become.”_

He’d pointed towards his sling, to the scar marring the side of his face, and every small injury that made up his new self—an individual he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to be, or know for that matter, one he prayed the redhead would never have to witness again or get used to.

_“You honestly think he wouldn’t accept you after everything you’ve both been through, together? I highly doubt that, Meis.”_

Lio had trailed his hands down the expanse of his companion’s back, rubbing gentle circles against his spine down to his waist, fingers pausing against bony hips. He’d let Meis cry into the junction of his shoulder and neck, fresh tears dripping down his collarbone to land against shirt. 

_“I don’t know what he wants, or if he even wants anything to begin with.”_

_“You won’t know unless you ask him.”_

_‘What have you gotten yourselves into?’_ A strangled sigh escapes Lio’s lips, the makings of a headache building against his temple the longer he places blame upon himself for his companion’s state of mind. He jostles ever so carefully so as not to move the other, resituates himself until Meis’s arm rests against the sheets and his head falls light upon their shared pillow. He checks the clock, just enough time to see if Galo has woken up, and more than enough to search for Gueira if the idiot hadn’t returned, yet. He stretches, cracks his back in multiple places, lets his legs slowly ease off the side of the bed, feet brushing plush carpet. “I’ll be back with breakfast.”

He bends over to place a chaste kiss to the dark haired man’s cheek, once more running delicate fingers through stray locks before slowly making his way out into the hall. He’s greeted by a mess of blue hair followed by red, heated conversation escalating towards the living room until he hears their balcony door slamming shut.

_‘Guess he came back after all.’_

Lio briefly meets Galo’s gaze before the blue haired man points towards their balcony, shaking his head ever so slightly, shoulders slumping.“Not sure if I helped or made things worse, honestly.” The firefighter confesses, tone far too soft, doubt clouding his usually bright gaze the instant his eyes meet Lio’s. He shrugs, plops down hard upon the sofa, weaves his hands through bushy blue locks. “He was seriously upset, Lio, like, I know he gets mad a lot but that was . . . different.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Lio whispers, gaze softening. “Don’t take this to heart, okay?” He shuffles towards the other, rests a hand upon the firefighter’s wrist, gives it a gentle squeeze in the process, lavender eyes lighting. “You meant well, he just needs to see that.”

The blonde steps towards their sliding glass door, casually opens it and walks out. He hugs himself against the oncoming morning chill, rubs his hands over slender arms, fidgeting in place. The redhead leans heavy against the railing, gaze cast out over the city, back slouched in agitation. And it takes a moment for Lio to register that this is possibly the first time he’s spoken with Gueira after such an incident, the two former Generals having always taken to solving their own problems, together.

“Gueira.” Lio whispers the other’s name just loud enough for him to hear, positions himself so that he’s standing within arm’s reach, waits until what little tension flows freely from the redhead’s shoulders eases off into a mild hum. “Mind telling me your side of things, or would you rather check in on him first?” There’s an underlying meaning to his words, in the way Lio cocks his head, lavender hues narrowing the longer he remains focused on the other. “Neither of us got much rest, so I suggest doing something other than just standing out here with your tail between your legs. Unless you’d rather have him thinking you’ve up and left for good?” He takes the longest of pauses, hands coming down to rest at his side before adding under his breath, “not like Galo and I couldn’t take care of him, together, though.” A hint of a smirk forms upon his lips, in the way his tone plays heavy as if he’s channeling every ounce of his former self that he can manage.

Lio Fotia stands up tall, lime blonde hair disheveled, boxers half askew, and merely watches with mock interest as the redhead takes notice of his presence, curls his bottom lip between his teeth, and waits.

_‘Your move, General.’_

“There ain’t shit to explain.” Gueira hisses, sour tone oozing from his mouth as he turns to meet lilac tinted eyes. “And to be honest, it really isn’t any of your damn business what happened between us.” It’s inescapable, the fit of rage lingering over him, dangerous fumes seeping from his every pore despite no longer harnessing his flames. Everything in sight bursts into different shades of red, highly saturated crimson dripping past his eyes, incoherent thoughts beating against the inside of his skull upon Lio’s appearance and jibs. He scoffs in response to the former leader’s question, can’t see the point in explaining any side of something that should never have involved the other to begin with.

“You should go back inside, _Boss_.”

Gueira returns to gazing across the cityscape though he can’t help but feel on edge, threatened by the other’s presence. Every muscle within his body tenses, unsettling disgust pooling within his stomach at the mere thought of Lio ever so casually stepping into his place. Meis was, always had been, his to protect—the one shining light amongst endless clouds of regret, the only person to ever truly see him as something other than a mistake. He’d no sooner combust than give the dark haired man over to someone else, let alone Lio.

“Sorry, but last I checked this was my home, and you’re both my responsibility.” Lio responds, ice seeping into his voice, posture turning rigid the more he fixates on Gueira’s laid back stance—the more effort he puts into not slamming his fist straight into the other’s face. The sheer disregard the once second in command appears to hold for their entire situation, the overbearing rage he’d exuded upon seeing Lio standing before him, upon knowing that someone else had stepped into his domain, only helps fuel the fire within Lio’s veins. 

_‘Real smooth, Miami, letting yourself be blinded by your emotions as usual.’_

Meis and Gueira had always been enigmas to the former leader, their never ending dance around the other proving time and again that they cared, though neither had the balls to say or do anything. Even Lio could tell they shared a complicated history, and he’d often wondered if quite possibly he’d proven to be a thorn in their side upon appearing that fateful day, though neither had ever admitted to such. Rather, they’d welcomed him with open arms. 

“Weren’t you the one that said you’d always be by his side?” Lio questions. “How does hiding out here solve anything?”

“The hell does that have to do with anything? If he wants to find me, he can.” Gueira’s voice raises an octave, would be fire spitting from his mouth the instant he speaks, hands gripping the metal railing until tanned knuckles fade into white. His tongue burns with each lash he makes, heated venom spewing despite knowing he should remain calm. “You don’t know shit, Lio.” 

“And you weren’t the one who _slept_ with him last night, asshole.” Lio’s response cuts deep, bites down and latches onto what little piece of sanity the redhead hoped to keep. The former leader of Mad Burnish shifts, eyes narrowing to tiny slits, tone gathering just enough of his own malice to bite back at the redhead. It doesn’t even phase him that this might be their first true argument—that their small world has suddenly burst into hectic life without the use of their flames. “I know more than you think, Gueira.”

And it’s a realization that falls heavy within Lio’s gut, the mere notion that—for once—he knows more about Meis than Gueira would ever hope to admit.

“You little piece of shit!” Heatedly turning upon his heels, Gueira slams his fists down on either side of Lio’s shoulders, frantic gaze searching the expanse of the smaller man’s expression, willing the other to back down. “I’ll say it again, Go. Back. Inside. Boss.” He breathes out another quick, hateful, spit of words, hands fisting beside off blonde hair.

Lio’s expression shifts.

A warning flares bright behind Gueira’s eyes though he keeps going, tone gaining confidence, “it doesn’t matter what the fuck you think happened, you aren’t the one he needs right now. You aren’t the one that’s going to help him, not when you’re to blame for half of this in the first place. Not when you’re the reason we were tossed into those fucking pods!”

“Is that what you really think, Gueira?”

Lio watches as his former General slowly recoils, expression shifting to something he can’t quite read, and he knows he’s hit a sore spot, can tell in the way the redhead quickly fumbles for the patio door, hands shaking against the glass before pulling the latch open.

The only thing on Gueira’s mind upon entering the suddenly cold apartment, a warm shower in hopes of cleansing himself of the ill thoughts pervading his heart.

******

Meis shifts beneath the sheets, feels around for Lio’s warmth and comes up empty. Furrows his brows at the realization that he’s once again alone. He’d cried himself to sleep tucked tight against the smaller man’s side, head nestled against the pale skin of his collarbone, hand resting heavy upon a delicate hip. And, for the first time in years, he’d found himself dreamless, no longer fearing the sight of burning bodies, or monsters from his past.

“Lio?”

Pain creeps into his gut, and he instantly regrets not having eaten more the previous night—not having taken better care of himself despite being told his body, now more than ever, needed proper nourishment to heal. He vaguely recalls hearing Lio promising breakfast, wonders if quite possibly he’d been imagining things, though the pleasant smell brewing from their shared kitchen makes his mouth water.

He heaves a sigh into the pillowcase, clutches the sheets beneath his fingers, rolls onto his side to face the wall. Part of him wants to forget the last 24 hours while the other half yearns to settle everything once and for all—to finally let his feelings be known, to hold the redhead once more and promise that things will be better. 

That they deserve better.

_‘Like hell he’ll come back that easily, though.’_

He barely registers his own breath growing heavy, regret once more collecting within his mind, coiling down the expanse of his throat, locking his heart like a vice. He shifts, drags the comforter with him, feet smoothing over plush sheets, hand grabbing the pillow beneath his head, pulling it up and over until it covers his face only to let out a frustrated growl from between clenched teeth.

_‘Even if he does come back what are you going to say? I’m sorry? I was wrong for telling you to leave even though I meant every word?’_

He’s torn from his thoughts the instant the door opens and shuts, hurried footsteps scurrying across the carpet, loud clanging following soon after, far too loud to be from Lio. 

And he knows, despite everything, that Gueira has returned.

Meis doesn’t have the heart to look up, can’t seem to pull his face away from the pillowcase for fear of showing tear stains sticking to his cheeks, lips swollen from having bitten them far too many times to count. What he does register, however, is that the comforter suddenly seems far too heavy, constricting, forcing his breath to heave heated and quick within his lungs. He makes to slowly pull the covers down, not caring what Gueira might see, but knowing damn well that his boxers have ridden past his waist, slim hips poking out from under soft sheets. Blue black hair clings to his neck, sweat having turned each strand into a messy heap upon his head. He pretends to be asleep, lets his hand ghost out to rest upon his waist, breath evening out to a gentle hum.

A quick glance towards the bed inspires a guttural scoff from the redhead, twitching fingers pulling open the closet door as loudly as he can, hinges squeaking in response.He jerks hangers about, immediately slamming the door shut and moving to pull open the dresser drawers, taking no mind of the sleeping man before him.

_‘He’s still upset, of course he would be.’_

Gueira has never been one for silence, has never held back when it comes to his emotions, and yet Meis finds himself wanting nothing more than to reach out and slap the redhead for considering such an entrance after all they’d been through. After he’d seemingly left Meis to his own thoughts the night before. The former General takes to responding with the first thing that comes to mind, promptly chucking his only defense, the pillow, straight at Gueira’s face. 

“m’ trying to sleep, asshole.”

Gueira hardly has time to react before the pillow collides against his face, lazily falling to the floor after squishing into his nose. A boisterous laugh erupts from his mouth, hands coming up to run through his hair, knit towel beginning to fall from his waist only to land comfortably around his feet. “Aw,” the corner of a joke flows forth, “you are just so damn cute when pissed off, _princess_.” He snickers, further adjusting himself into a pair of underwear, taking more time than necessary to get them perfectly situated before slowly bending down to pick up the towel, chucking it at the frail man in bed.

“What happened?” Nonchalance drips like water from his lips, cocky grin overtaking his expression. “Didn’t get enough sleep?” Jealousy peaks amongst an array of emotions swirling within Gueira’s gut, and he briefly wonders if their current situation is just as harrowing for Meis to endure as it is for him to go through. He can’t quite shake the thought of Lio cuddled up to the man, nor can he help but wonder exactly how far Meis had gone in hopes of ridding himself from his own lingering doubt.

Gueira clears his throat, eyes burning from the deadly cocktail of a sleepless night and growing bitterness. He shifts from one side to the next as he waits for a reply, whispers under his breath, "you might wanna take your little post fuck party into the other room cause I'm about to sleep."

Meis knows, hell does he know, that Gueira is only trying to get a response out of him. Can tell from the way the redhead saunters about, cocky and high strung with an energy that oozes pompousness. His companion seemingly seeks out new means of ruffling his feathers, his tone of voice, the way his gaze smolders fiery red, every hair upon his being practically bristling back unbridled fury that he’d hoped would have dissipated after having left. The once third in command heaves a sigh, gathers enough courage to speak out in hopes of quelling what little anger remains locked within the redhead. Waits a few seconds while Gueira does his thing, pillow long since forgotten on the floor, tufts of red falling askew against a tanned face.

It hits him, then, just how upset the other truly is.

_“. . . take your little post fuck party . . .”_

Something in Gueira’s tone further twists Meis’s gut, forces him to sit up, messy hair cascading over pale skin, heat rising to his face the instant he notices the other staring at him—the moment their eyes inadvertently lock. A slew of curses lodge deep within his throat, words that would surely burn, words that are meant to hurt. Venom itches its way inside his mouth, clawing desperately to be set free, to have its way with the redhead despite wanting nothing more than to calm him down. And, _oh_ , Meis wants to remain grounded no matter what, wants his companion to ease off whatever power trip he’s suddenly found interest in possessing, because neither of them work well together when the other is upset, and neither think straight when cornered.

And, for once, Meis finds himself cornered with the only other person that’s ever treated him like a human being attempting to breathe fire down his throat.

“. . . what if we did?” He’s responding long before his mind catches up with his thoughts, long before he can put a filter on the words seeping past his lips. Red washes over his vision, heart thrumming deep within his chest, begging to be set free. “He was _there_ for me, Gueira. Where were you?”

Meis knows the implications of his response, knows the instant the words are out on the floor that the redhead will see stars, can’t help but feel a part of his ego swelling for being so bold. The mere fact that Gueira had the balls to say such things only fuels Meis’s passion to lash out once more. To double back on the need to pretend everything can be all right. Because, for once, he’s not sure where their little argument is headed. Doesn’t quite know if he wants to find out, either. 

“Hope you enjoyed yourselves, then.” Another slimy mouthful of hate slips past Gueira’s lips despite knowing he shouldn’t make wild assumptions. If the two of them had been considered average people at any point of their lives, maybe things would have been different. Perhaps they would have taken a much gentler and more awe-inspiring route to whatever “this” was. 

It was unfortunate they’d never been considered normal.

“If you’re so worried about what I do when you’re not here, then fight to keep me by your side like you used to!” Tension floods into Meis’s veins the longer he considers the redhead’s words, the more he lets sweet poison take over. He wishes he’d held onto his pillow, desperately needs something to cling to, to squeeze until his knuckles turn white and he can’t possibly feel his fingers any longer. 

His head swims with the makings of a migraine, vision blurring the longer he finds himself watching the other’s every move or lack thereof. “Boss . . . no, Lio helped me, for fuck’s sake. He helped me when all you could do was turn tail after being told to get out!” Meis pauses, gathers a much needed breath, finds that his entire body has started to shake despite attempting to remain calm. “You’re supposed to be my partner dammit, the one I can turn to, what am I supposed to think if you can’t even stand your own goddamn ground the instant I lose control over myself?”

It’s not even about their argument anymore, definitely not about the way they’d held onto the other, languid strokes of lips upon lips, of calloused hands traversing the length of Meis’s body, of pent up desire burning bright between them. Meis knows this but keeps going, rage from years long past building up and taking root deep within. The need to voice everything he’s kept pent up growing harsher by the minute.

“I know I’m broken, Gueira, I know I’m not the same as I once was. But fuck . . .” Meis balls his fist, voice breaking. And he wishes he could wipe away freshly falling tears, despises himself for being a husk of the man he once was. 

A nothing. 

“ . . . . Fuck, I just . . .” He trails off, voice losing its previous heat. Every ounce of steam he’d built up, dissipates. He flings sweat streaked sheets off the bed, stares wide eyed at the redhead, panic playing into his expression, eye glassing over with fresh tears. He chews at his bottom lip, worrying teeth marks like his life depends upon it. 

And, he thinks, maybe it really does. 

“ . . . . Do you regret it?” His tone shifts, fingers fumbling with his sling, prying away small strands of wayward fabric here and there. He feels like he’s a teenager again, worthless and alone, used beyond repair. “Just answer me that at least, please?”

Quiet disdain blankets Gueira’s face, smothering him for what seems like a lifetime before he can fathom a comeback. His lungs match the high tempo of his heartbeat while angry crimson eyes record each of his companion’s movements—the way the corners of Meis’s mouth tremble with the makings of a frown, straight down to how the dark haired man can’t help but clench his fist till his knuckles turn white, every little motion being tucked away in the back of Gueira’s mind for later use. 

A low growl resonates from deep within his throat, teeth grinding as he slowly moves toward the foot of the bed, mindful of where Meis remains poised. “You. Are. Not. Fucking. BROKEN.” The redhead drops his fists against the mattress, casually leaning over until he can fix his gaze on Meis’s own wide eyed stare.

“You . . . you honestly think I should have stayed? Like I wanted my way of _caring_ for you to be regarded as something it wasn’t?” Crimson eyes narrow the longer he focuses on his companion, tone easing despite still feeling the crippling effects of potentially being rejected. It hits him, then, that they’re both fighting and denying themselves answers to the same fight, a fight that neither are destined to win if they continue down the spiraling path.

Gueira hangs his head, eyes snapping shut, heated sigh pressing past his lips to fall upon chilled skin. “Damn it, Meis, how can I regret anything regarding you?” He staggers a breath before continuing, "God forbid I just wanted to make sure you were okay, how can you fault me for that? You wanna play 'woe-is-fuckin' me?' Go right ahead, I’m ready."

Meis remains poised upon the bed, heated tears streaming down his cheeks mingling against the fabric of a plush fitted sheet. He half hiccups half chokes, dreading the look he must be giving the other while they both spew nonsense back and forth. He curls his hand into a fist, clenches and unclenches his fingers till he all but loses feeling in his palm. What little tension he felt slowly eases into a dulled numbness that seeps through his veins to rest within the depths of his chest, rebuilding walls he’d fought so hard to slowly break down.

It’s not that he hadn’t wanted Gueira to care about his wellbeing—he had—he’d just hoped the redhead would find it within himself to push past the smallest ounce of pain in light of making pleasure. He’d hoped for some unknown reason that the tug of something physical, something whole and theirs to hold, would have kept his companion wanting more. 

Meis watches as Gueira clutches desperately to red curls, fingers playing through the mess of tangles to scrape soft against his scalp, and he wonders what else the other wishes to say but keeps locked up inside, instead. Can’t help but slowly ease himself up, leaning towards the direction in which the redhead remains, legs locked against the bedframe. Wills himself to think of something, anything, to say in hopes of making sense out of the darkness they’ve both chanced to fall into. 

“So, should we just stop, then?” He runs a shaky hand through darkened bangs, breathes deep through his nose before continuing. “Should we throw in the towel and call whatever we are quits?” He’s tired despite having slept, weariness settling deep into his bones, drawing him back towards wanting to curl beneath the sheets—to potentially dream the rest of his life away. 

“I don’t want your pity and I for sure don’t want you assuming that I’m the type to sleep around with just anyone. Though, I figured after last night you’d have understood at least that much.” Meis’s tone falls heavy on his emotions, exhaustion playing into the way he nearly slurs his final sentence. Gueira’s weight upon the edge of the bed is the only thing grounding him from up and leaving their shared space—the notion that there’s still hope lingering in the back of his mind with every passing second. 

“I just want you, us.”

Meis lets each word fall freely from his mouth, knows the weight of every syllable and what he’s implying. Wonders if such a statement will even reach the redhead’s ears, if he’ll understand just how tired, how thoroughly worn out, Meis truly is. He thinks back to the day’s spent with his mother, to the way she’d encourage him to be himself—to smile in the face of fear, of doubt. Wonders how someone such as herself would handle his current situation. If she’d even see the same boy she’d raised in the now venom spewing man with a broken past and an even worse off future.

_‘Ma, you never did say what happens if the person has been alongside me for half my life.’_

Hesitantly, he takes to raising up onto his knees, to shuffling forward until he’s mere inches away from the redhead, watches with mock interest as the other fights an inward battle the likes of which he doesn’t want to know—though he assumes his own is similar in nature. Hesitantly, he attempts to wrap his arm around the other’s shoulders, wants nothing more than to draw him close and forget the past few hours spent wallowing in self-pity and hate.

“Gueira, this isn’t us, you know that, I know that.”

He breathes each word into the silence, leans forward until his head rests against Gueira’s shoulder. Clings to the last remaining piece of dignity he has left. “This isn’t how I want to remember us fifty years from now, idiot.” Curses the day he was born before slowly easing back upon the mattress, tugging the redhead down with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You’ll find your special someone, Meisies, and when you do . . . I want to be the first to meet them.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, read the tags and heed the warnings~ this chapter brought to you by the letter "E"

_Fifty years from now . . ._

Like that of the morning sun, Meis’s calming aura beckons for Gueira to remain awake, wide eyed and alert, ever ready to hear what the dark haired man might say. And yet, a growing part of him wishes to crawl back into bed and pull the other close, to fall away into whatever dreamland awaits them and forget about their argument once and for all.

It takes everything he has to hold himself together, to reinforce each carefully placed stitch for fear of hearing the delicate threads popping, for fear of feeling his entire body going limp under the pressure of not knowing exactly where their conversation might lead. Long have the days faded in which he felt secure and safe, glued together and whole, gone far before he had a chance to appreciate them or even realize they were his to cherish. However he’d found that with Meis, whether they were wrapped together in bed or casually talking across the room from one another, every dormant emotion gradually crept forth once again. He’d begun to realize that, maybe just maybe, the dark haired man was meant to remain within his somewhat meaningless life for better or for worse.

That maybe loving someone else wasn’t as hard as it may seem.

_‘This isn’t how I want to remember us.’_

_“_ Meis . . . I . . .”

Hands shaking, nerves jittering, he hesitantly rests his fingers upon Meis’s hips careful so as not to alarm the other. The soft scent of earthen pine tickles his nose causing his eyelids to drop, sleep wanting nothing more than to claim him though he knows they both desperately need to talk. Knows that, should he say no to this moment, he may never get another chance.

“Remember us? Fifty years?” Gueira trails off, mind wandering to deeper, far more vivid dreams, of what he would one day hope to have with the other—a life mapped out for just the two of them, one in which they never had to worry about being looked down upon, or cast aside, ever again. An amused lighthearted hum builds within the back of his throat, brushing past his lips in the form of delicate laughter. He turns his head just enough to brush his lips against Meis’s neck, whispering into pale skin, “I want more than just fifty, Meis, but I need to know what we are first. What you want us to be.”

“I was hoping you might have an answer for that, actually.” Meis knows exactly what he needs to hear, exactly how he feels when it comes to where their little game of cat and mouse ends and where their actual life together begins. He’s known for quite some time though he hasn’t had the balls to speak out, hasn’t found the right moment to let the redhead know just how important he truly is, and then some.

Gueira wants something more with him. That much is obvious. That much has the once third in command pressing his face into his companion’s collar, mouth opening and closing only to teasingly brush his lips over freshly scented skin. There’s a knot forming in his gut, one in which he’d felt the night before, one that yearns to be released, to be stroked despite the redhead’s obvious exhaustion and his own hesitation. He takes a chance to look up, really studies the redhead’s expression, the way water plays off his darkened eyelashes to catch haphazardly upon tanned cheeks. The way Gueira all but grins in that semi-dorky way that never ceases to send wave after wave of confusion, heat, coursing through Meis’s veins. He takes a moment to consider their lives, really thinks about the implications of Gueira’s comment, how the redhead seemingly began to bristle with newfound life the instant he’d spoken such a confession.

“What is it that you want, Gueira? What does all of this mean for you?”

Gueira moves his hands from their hold against Meis’s hips, ever so slowly snaking his fingers to rest upon the curve of his companion’s back. The cool sheets beckon for him to relax, gentle warmth blanketing him against the chill of the taller man’s skin, and he can’t help but draw the other impossibly close. Strands of blue black tresses surround them, decorating the pillows in a colorful veil the likes of which the redhead wishes he could remain in forever.

“All I know is, I don’t see my life without you in it, whether fifty years from now or more.” His heart kicks up pace, pounding against his ribcage, threatening to tear its way clear out of his chest if he doesn’t act fast, if he doesn’t solidify Meis’s presence by his side. “I couldn’t when we first met, and I damn well can’t now, either.” He’s certain his companion can hear each deafening sound coming from within, every unsteady thrumming easing itself into the open the longer they remain together. He emphasizes his words with a subtle touch of his foot to the dark haired man’s ankle. Blows another elongated breath against Meis’s skin right below his ear, laughs as the smallest of baby hairs sticks out of place from the sudden breeze. 

“None of that matters, though, if I don’t know how _you_ feel. If we aren’t in tune.”

Meis has to admit that the man is right, and it’s such a thought that has his vision blurring, breath coming in rapid little puffs against the redhead’s chest.

“I can praise you for eternity but it won’t mean a damn thing if you can’t accept how I feel about you, Meis.” Gueira whispers, hands rubbing small circles against his companion’s back just above his waistline. “Nothing matters if we aren’t both in this together.”

Meis considers every little instance in which he’s shoved his feelings to the dirt, allowed for his personal needs and desires to take a backseat, never wanting to appear desperate or whiny when putting the needs of others before his own. He allows for every wave of guilt he’s bottled up over the past 24 hours to spill out, hoping beyond hope that the other can tell he’s sorry, that he’s tired of not knowing whether or not they’ll wake up next to each other, that he needs some form of reassurance that he hasn’t overstepped his boundaries and possibly ruined the foundation of Gueira’s trust once and for all. 

“Pretty sure you already know the answer, too.” Gueira’s teasing him, wrapping his little finger around a stray lock of blue black hair, drawing him close to admitting everything he’s hoped to keep secret. “If you don’t want to tell me right away, you don’t have to, but know that I won’t settle for your silence again, not after last night.” 

Meis’s heart pounds deep inside his chest, steady thrumming escalating to a frantic hum the longer they remain locked together—the longer he has the chance to feel, to trail his fingers back down to hover over the redhead’s waist, teasing little circles into tender skin. He isn’t even sure what to say, how to articulate the exact thoughts racing through his mind, doesn’t know if it’s even possible to express every emotion and need despite wanting nothing more than to admit how he feels. 

Despite wanting to put an end to Gueira’s lingering doubts and fears.

Heat blossoms wherever their bodies touch, where skin meets skin and hands find their way to roam up and around the expanse of his waist, legs entwining, connecting them much like a puzzle. Meis leans into Gueira’s hold, twitches ever so slightly upon feeling the other’s lips against his neck, semi warm breath sending shivers down his spine. He tugs a bit until the redhead nestles flush against him, lets his hand traverse the expanse of Gueira’s back, water droplets falling soft against his fingers until he meets unruly locks, weaving a path into still wet hair.

He takes pride in the way the mattress dips down against their shared weight, in the notion that he’s been blessed with such an opportunity for closeness after all the hurt they’ve spewed towards each other. And he finds himself delighting in the mere fact that he is still able to soothe his companion despite having caused him such pain.

“And, none of it will matter if you’re barely keeping your eyes open, either.” The dark haired man laughs wholeheartedly for the first time since having arrived at the apartment, moves his hand up and down his companion’s spine. “You should sleep, besides, I’ve been told I make a good pillow.”

“I don’t . . .” Gueira stutters, eyes barely creaking open from the sting of a sleepless night, “it’s not sleep that I need right now, Meis.” He mumbles, tongue going heavy within his mouth, hands tightening their hold against pale skin. Meis’s body against his makes it even more difficult to draw himself from sleep despite how much the insufferable flame tries to consume him, the unmistakable comforts in lying with his companion cannot be denied. Likewise, the way the dark haired man snuggles close only happens to shake any remainders of exhaustion from Gueira’s mind, for once making him begin to feel the beasts who so eagerly nudged him, egging him on, shutter in their futile attempts to further shake him.

“What are you trying to say?” Meis can feel the pounding of the redhead’s heart deep within his chest, the way his own voice mimics each frantic beat straight down to how he can’t stop from hiding his face in the crook of his companion’s shoulder.

“What I’m saying is, I want you to admit you’re mine.”

The magnitude of hearing himself utter such words, the irony of understanding how easily such an admittance could fall from his lips, is enough to make the exhausted man lift himself up just enough so he can finally make out each perfect little line and curve, the overpowering expression taking over Meis’s face, all while hovering closely above him. 

Calloused hands smooth aside all remnants of silky blue hair, tenderly brushing each disheveled lock away from peach tinted cheeks so that Gueira can fully look at the man he admires, cherishes. “Just,” the redhead’s voice is barely a whisper, slow in tempo but rich in low tones, and he takes the silence to lightly plant kisses along Meis’s jaw before gathering the courage to say more. “Just be mine, Meis.”

And, _oh_ , how he wants to drift into whatever unknown darkness or blinding light they might find at the end of a well spent life together. Endlessly tangled up in sheets, forever twisting and connecting.

“Just say that you’re mine.”

Gueira rests his forehead against Meis’s, relishes in the moment of having the other with him, nuzzles his nose gently while silently protesting the notion of falling sleep. Throws caution to the wind and closes the distance between them with a searing kiss. And the only other coherent thought filtering through his mind is that he too wants to belong to Meis in every aspect of the word, wants nothing more than to show off his companion’s handiwork after a night’s tangle in bed, after a night spent locked within the other’s grasp, drawn out gasps quickening into heated moans. Needs to feel the dark haired man’s warmth around him, desires to be made whole, spread thin by way of passion and lust alone.

_‘I’m yours, I’m yours, will never stop being yours . . .’_

Meis sighs into Gueira’s touch, kisses back just as hungrily, passionately, as the redhead if not more, frantic pecks here and there, languid strokes of lips to lips only to break apart and stare into vivid auburn hues.He can’t help but smirk when their foreheads touch once more, warmth spreading through his cheeks, painting his cheeks a pleasant shade of crimson.Water droplets mingle against his eyelashes, dainty spots blurring his vision, spilling over to land against his pillow. And he knows, has suddenly stopped caring, that his companion can certainly feel the fluttering of his heart, loud and hurried against his chest, daring to escape straight out of his mouth should he let it. 

The way Gueira’s hands mingle within his hair, softly brushing aside darkened bangs to stare lovingly down at him—the way his companion’s eyes light the instant they catch an equally mesmerized gaze, everything swirls in pleasant waves coming to rest within a heated pool deep inside his gut.

‘ _But are you mine?’_

He takes a shuddering breath, runs his hand back through Gueira’s hair, tugs just enough to hurt, scrapes painted nails against his companion’s scalp and feels each puffed out strand straining within his grasp.He’s always harbored a hidden interest in the redhead’s hair, has eagerly awaited such a chance to touch and stroke, to run his fingers through the unnaturally soft locks without being reprimanded.Marvels in the smallest hints of a blush forming upon his companion’s face the instant he draws close. 

“Did I say something wrong, Meis?”

Meis nestles into the crook of Gueira’s neck, chases a trail of water droplets with his tongue, manages to catch each and every one before lovingly nipping the shorter man’s Adam’s apple. He continues his path down, burns a kiss into the redhead’s collarbone, just enough to bruise—to show the world that said man belongs to him, as well. He chokes out a laugh at the sight, unsteady vibrations dancing through his chest, illuminating his expression to one of sheer happiness. The instant he leans away, fingers no longer weaving through reddened locks but rather coming to rest against his own lips, splaying out against uneven puffs of air, he knows that no matter what, he's fallen. 

That every second of their lives spent together, every shared moment, has amounted to this one spark of an opportunity for them to finally become something more.

“No, nothing,” Meis responds, glancing at the redhead through a veil of blue black bangs. He chances another kiss to his companion’s lips, nips playfully at his jaw, smooths his tongue over semi sweat slicked skin before drawing back to rest his head upon the pillow. He just wants to feel, to touch, to wrap his legs around Gueira’s waist and mold deathly close together. 

To never let go.

A fraction of a second passes between them, Meis falling silent, chest heaving back labored breaths, rising and falling in tandem with Gueira’s own quickening bursts. He watches as a mixture of emotions, play through the redhead’s gaze, wonders what each little swirl of changing color might mean—how he can so easily turn such vibrant hue into darkened pools. 

How he can make Gueira's pupils dilate beyond belief, lost in the heat of the moment, lost in growing passion.

He motions towards Gueira’s boxers, lingers on the smallest patch of peach fuzz leading below deathly tan hips. Makes to speak but falls short, leaves the comforts of his pillow to hover over the redhead, watching the rise and fall of his chest intently. There are far too many thoughts running through his mind and not enough letters in the alphabet to phrase them, to fully convey exactly how he’s feeling without appearing needy.

Another kiss to half parted lips, lingering, soft. 

“I’m all yours, Gueira.”

Despite each newfound sensation beginning to override the redhead’s freewill and thoughts, a drop of hesitation mingles in the pit of his stomach, churning and coiling within its own venom. Here he had spent years wondering and dreaming of such a moment, though now that he was actually experiencing it, his nervous jitters refused to be hidden beneath the shaking of pure ecstasy.

“I don’t . . .” Gueira hesitates, shrinking back ever so slightly, faltering. The knowledge that he might not know what to do or even that he might let Meis down by such a juvenile admission, refuses to back down.He can feel his heart beating straight out of his throat, lungs screaming for much needed air, for any form of release. “I . . . don’t know how . . .” a half-embarrassed chuckle bubbles past his lips, and he does everything he can to not look Meis in the eye.

"I’ve never . . . with anyone . . .”

Hope hinges on the edge of a cliff, on the edge of their newfound glory. What if Meis doesn’t feel like playing teacher? What if this all really is a dream about to funnel back into a nightmare? Despite Meis appearing on board, the redhead knows that when it comes to himself, almost everyone always backs down. Why would Meis be any different?

_‘So that’s how it is, oh Gueira, if only you knew . . .’_

Meis’s heart swells at the declaration, at how sincerely innocent Gueira can be despite knowing the redhead wants nothing more than to lead, to show his companion how much he truly needs the other within his life. He finds their situation intriguing, a new piece in their puzzle to weave around and make right, a means of guiding the other into the unknown. He holds back a laugh, delights in knowing that he happens to be Gueira’s first. He’s always imagined the other to have had his fair share of relationships, and it takes him a moment to collect himself before pushing forward.

“Sweetheart, you humor me.” Meis breathes a series of open mouthed kisses onto Gueira’s shoulder, leaves little teeth marks here and there, laving over a particularly harsh bruise the instant he sees soft purple hues blossoming upon tanned skin. Takes to trailing soft lips over the expanse of his companion’s neck to land hesitantly against his ear. 

“Don’t have to explain yourself, though.” Each word seeps into the redhead’s veins like honey, mingles dangerously close to his heart, weaves in and out to rest heavy within the silence. Meis shifts close, nips playfully upon Gueira’s bottom lobe, soothes his tongue over the smallest of marks, the lightest hints of blood drawing upon his senses. He blows another playful puff of air into Gueira’s ear before slowly edging back, easing his way from underneath strong arms until he’s sitting up on his knees, fingers tucked tight within the sheets.

And maybe it’s the way he adverts his gaze that has Gueira wondering if he’s second guessing everything, if he truly desires whatever the redhead has to offer. 

The dark haired man knows deep down that he’ll take on the world for Gueira, that stopping would only put a knife into the other’s gut, into his already fractured ego and whatever hope their relationship might have going forward. They’ve gone past the point of no return, and he slowly closes the space between them once more, pushing his companion down, watching intently as the redhead’s back hits the mattress, disheveled locks spilling out onto the pillow in a soft halo around his head. 

“Tell me what feels good _for_ you, then.”

Meis props himself up on the balls of his feet, moves carefully so that his legs come to rest on either side of Gueira’s hips, lets himself hover for a brief second before fully sitting down ever so casually upon his companion’s dick.

He breathes a sigh, heavy and heated, can’t help but move his hips in the slightest of forward motions. Relishes in the way he can feel his companion swelling despite only having started to show the other pleasure. He wants to tease, to coil every ounce of heat inside Gueira’s gut until the redhead is a heap of writhing passion beneath him. 

“Sweet, airheaded, idiotic man, you deserve the world.” Meis whispers, pulls Gueira’s hand up to rest upon his lips, kisses the pad of the redhead’s index finger, once, twice, before gracing him with a delicate smile. “Do you even know how precious you are to me?”

Without much thought he eases a path down the expanse of his own chest, waist, coming to rest at the base of his boxers. “Do you even know what you’re, no what you’ve, been doing to me?”

“I . . .” Gueira trails off, drawn out thoughts only making the moment sweeter, “I’m not the one you should be saying that about, Meis.”His voice is far too deep, choked back behind a guttural moan the instant he feels Meis’s hand pressed firm against his own.

And suddenly Gueira wants to taste him, to feel every inch of him, to be connected to him in every aspect of the word.

“And why shouldn’t I be?”

Meis allows for Gueira’s hand to traverse the outside of boxers, watches with bated breath as the redhead’s face turns every shade of crimson imaginable, waits a few seconds before ever so carefully slipping his companion’s fingers inside to rest upon his own length.

“If I said I already thought of myself as yours,” the dark haired man pauses, licks his bottom lip in thought. “What would you do to me?

Fiery eyes trail a burning path from Meis’s hips, twisting and turning up his chest to focus on his lips, lingering on each word the dark haired man whispers. As far as he’s concerned, anything about Meis is what he wants—from his tender caresses to the ever growing beast he knows his companion can become.

_‘Far too much to name.’_

Gueira takes to exploring every inch of pale skin, every blemish and scar, fingers smoothing over delicate hips straight back down to rest between Meis’s legs. He moves his free hand up to weave through darkened locks, easing a path down to rest against his companion’s neck, drawing their foreheads close till he can feel each and every frantic puff of breath escaping from between the dark haired man’s lips.

“I _’_ d never let you go,” Gueira moans into the junction of shoulder and neck, teeth nipping a dangerous path to land beneath Meis’s ear, and the sounds his companion makes with each tender caress only help fuel the growing fire surging through his veins. “. . . would want to make you moan for me.”And, ever so slowly he begins to move his wrist in tandem with his voice, gently rubbing up and down Meis’s shaft only to brush the pads of his fingers over an already presoaked tip.

"There we go, that wasn’t so hard." Meis purrs, half lidded stare focusing on his companion's lithe figure beneath him, the way the redhead all but laves his tongue over his fingers, slowly drawing his hand up to carefully rest against Meis's cock. He rocks his hips, leans further into Gueira's touch, lets a guttural moan escape from between partially parted kiss swollen lips, friction quickening with each motion. 

On a whim, he draws Gueira's index finger back over his tip before bringing the man's hand up to rest against his mouth, lapping up what little pre sticks to his fingers. Tension builds within the pit of Meis's stomach, coiling heat billowing up to nestle deep inside his chest right beneath his heart. And not once does Meis let his gaze leave his companion's, not once does he let the image of Gueira blushing, vivid crimson hues nearly catching on fire the longer he holds the redhead's gaze, leave his mind. 

He nestles himself between the redhead's thighs, ever so carefully sliding them apart, knowing look flashing across his face. And the only thoughts running through his mind are how beautiful the redhead looks, how lucky he is to have such a man splayed out before him, and how he’s never witnessed such desire, yearning, pooling within his companion’s eyes. 

The need to feel admired, cherished, made whole, swells deep within Meis’s chest.

“I want to hear you too, sweetheart.”

Meis lowers himself, brushes aside stray bangs, flashes another heated stare before taking the redhead into his mouth. 

For a man who’s spent much of his life being blown around by the wind, Gueira feels overcome with a tremendous need to be grounded—secure and safe within his companion’s hold. His family had been his entire existence prior to claiming his flames, without them he’d desired nothing, and had been hell bent on receiving nothing in return. However, upon having met Meis, sweet, level headed, endearing Meis, he’d gradually begun to feel more comfort in living than he had ever felt in being alone. 

He’d grown to cherish the moments they spent together, how the dark haired man could light up his world without even trying, merely by existing.

Now, the one man he’d fallen so head over heels for explored his body without protest or hesitation. 

“Meis?” Gueira’s heart flutters, nerves shaking upon a strung out thread while Meis roams and demands, inspiring the deepest and longest of moans to part his lips. 

Meis draws back, lips parting with a deafening pop, runs his hand through Gueira's bangs to caress alongside the redhead's cheek. A chaste kiss is pressed to the underside of Gueira's chin, and he takes a moment to ease his hand down the redhead’s side, resting casually upon his companion's hip, fingers etching little circles into tanned skin.

"Raise your hips for me."

He watches with veiled interest as the redhead’s chest heaves, pupils blown wide, lips parting with desperate little moans. Lets his own voice escape from partially chapped lips, eases further into the redhead’s space, desperate pinpricks of touch driving the once third in command to regret ever having talked down to the man—ever having brought himself to doubt that Gueira wanted nothing but the world for him and then some.

He licks his bottom lip, thinks long and hard on what his mother once told him, how she’d always known he’d one day come to find another that cherished him—yearned to be by his side no matter what the cost, even if he wouldn’t always be himself. 

“Top drawer.”

His cheeks burn, color rising to his face, his own breath coming out in uneven puffs despite trying his best to remain calm.

_‘I’ve been stupid.’_

And, though the thought is fleeting, he vows to never let the redhead down ever again. To show him the affection he deserves, needs, will ultimately thrive upon the longer they remain by each other’s side. Wants nothing more than to give and take, to be looked upon by unwavering crimson hues that see only him, and vice versa. Knows that, with time, they will heal the other’s wounds no matter how deep the marks might run.

_‘I won’t let him go, I can’t.’_

Meis notes the exact moment Gueira moves, calloused hands reaching out to open the nightstand drawer, delicate fingers wrapping about the only bottle he’d happened to place inside upon taking over the spare bedroom as their own. He can’t help but shudder at the sudden loss of heat, wants nothing more than to bring Gueira’s hands back up to rest upon his skin, trace those same fingers along his waist, building up what little tension has begun to coil within his stomach, tenfold. Captures the bottle within his own grasp the instant Gueira holds it up, flicking the cap open without hesitation.

“Meis, I, I was hoping you would,” Gueira’s voice hitches in the back of his throat, eyes searching the expanse of his companion’s face before flicking back to the bottle within his grasp. “Should I not have thought . . .?”

It takes everything the once third in command has to remain in control, to keep his heart from beating clear out of his chest.

“Gueira, I . . .”

And, as much as he wants to listen to the redhead’s request, he knows he can’t. Won’t. For fear of hurting the other. That, despite having the redhead where he wants him, he isn't quite certain that his companion is ready, mentally or physically. Isn't quite certain that he himself can do what the other wants, either.

“I don’t think . . .”

Meis hoists himself up onto his knees, keeps his gaze focused hard upon Gueira’s ever changing expression, vivid red hues dilating, frantic. Slowly hands the bottle back to his companion before lowering himself onto Gueira’s legs.

“I know what you’re asked of me, darlin’, but . . .” He shakes his head, blue black tendrils falling to rest against his shoulders in a veil of shadow, lighting delicately against sweat soaked skin with each soft motion. “But with you lookin’ the way you do, and with me the way I am,” another drawn out pause as he casually aligns his legs to rest on either said of Gueira’s hips, easing himself over the redhead’s tip until he can feel a pleasant burn taking root once more. 

He can’t quite get the words out, doesn’t know the exact way to ask without sounding desperate. Without appearing far too needy despite knowing his companion must be feeling the same if not worse.

“Hey,” Gueira calls out to him in that deep, calm, nonchalant tone of his, taking note of the small flicker of uncertainty twisting behind his companion’s gaze—the way he fumbles with his words as if slowly sinking back into his shell. “Meis look at me, as long as it’s with you, I don’t care how this is done.”

“Then, would you . . .?” Meis bites back whatever he’d hoped to say. Let’s his fingers linger close to the bottle, opening and closing, painted nails etching red marks into his palm. He watches with mild interest as the redhead gets the hint, eyes widening into saucers, tanned fingers ever so carefully moving the bottle until the smallest amount of liquid pours out and onto Meis’s hand.

And Meis should be used to this, to the sensation of eyes watching him as he carefully brings his hand back, fingers slipping in and out with crisscrossing motions, slowly working himself until he can feel a knot forming deep within his gut. But it’s been far too long, and he’s far too pent up, and the burn he feels only grows into an uncontrollable flame the longer he takes to prepare himself.

Meis heaves out a strangled cry, sultry look flashing ever so quickly within his gaze before lowering himself down onto Gueira’s dick.

And, _oh_ , his mind reels at the sensation of being far too full—far too warm—for his own good.

He can’t remember a time in which sex actually meant something, in which such overpowering emotions took over to the point of wanting to break down in tears. One night stands and frenzied trysts, barely there goodbyes that amounted to decades long insecurities the likes of which he has yet to give up on—every little punch to the gut seemingly thawing away for this one moment. 

Meis gasps, feels the redhead bottoming out only to slowly shuffle his way back up, calloused hands traversing the expanse of his body like a newly opened brush to a canvas. Every kiss they share, every taste of sweat upon his lips only adds to the growing knot threatening to overtake him. To devour him whole.

“ . . . so good for me.” Meis whispers, barely there words making it past his lips to break the silence, choked out sobs morphing into an airy gasp. And it takes him a moment to collect himself before he’s placing his palm upon Gueira’s waist, delicate fingers tracing every dip and curve of semi visible muscle, nails scratching a path down to where their bodies connect, sweat and friction and oh so sweet pleasure forcing him to ever so slowly rise back up upon the balls of his feet. 

He gives the redhead a steady look, one that hints for him to stop moving, silently declares that he wants to take over to the best of his abilities if only to show just how much he yearns for them to be together. 

“Let it all out, Gueira.” 

Ever so carefully Meis eases up only to push back down, hard, hips rolling with just the right amount of force to give him that much needed hint of friction.

He wants to see stars, to feel his entire body combusting with profound heat the likes of which he hasn’t felt since his flames left. Wants nothing more than to give his companion everything he has to offer, straight down to his very soul (no matter how broken and bruised it might be).

Gueira positions his hands on Meis’s thighs, fingers gently squeezing soft skin, helping him move up and down all while fighting to concentrate on something other than the slick sounds from their bodies connecting. 

“Meis, Meis.” Spoken like a silent prayer, the redhead cradles his hand into the dip between Meis’s back and hips, draws the taller man unbearably close, feels the press of his cock against his stomach with each thrust he happens to make. For the briefest of seconds Gueira teases a playful grin up at Meis, before slowly lifting his hips only to push his companion back down, bottoming out in one quick thrust.

Drawn out moans, breathy sighs stifled by way of biting down on one’s palm, every elongated whimper that passes Meis’s lips only helps to fuel the flames that grow hot and heavy within his stomach. Gueira’s hands are back upon his waist, fingers teasing against pale skin, marking him from the inside out only to sear open mouthed kisses down the length of his neck. He whines, balled up tension coiling deep inside his gut, hand grasping at everything and anything he can reach before finally finding purchase within plush sheets, knuckles whitening the longer he clings to the fabric. 

“Gueira, please.”

Tanned skin fills his vision, the rise and fall of Gueira’s chest, hurried breaths easing out of kiss swollen lips. The way in which the redhead guides him, quickened thrusts turning into drawn out teasing motions that never quite hit the right spot, never quite bring him to tumbling over the edge, are reason enough for the once third in command to roll his hips in earnest. To seek out any and all forms of release.

He finds himself fixating on the smallest beads of sweat, on the way Gueira’s eyes cloud over with heated passion, on the ever present thrumming of his heartbeat while Meis rocks their bodies together, filling himself to the brim until he practically burns. Meis situates himself at an angle, falls forward ever so slightly so that his companion is forced to support him with a soft thump upon the sheets. Brings their foreheads to barely touch, breath mingling, lips dangerously close to connecting. Meis smirks, draws his arm up to rest just above Gueira’s head, fingers carefully twining through puffy red strands, tugging much like his companion had done to his own darkened locks earlier. And he can’t help but wonder if he’s taken the redhead by surprise, if suddenly wanting to be in control has made an impact on the other.

“Touch me . . .” His voice sounds foreign, far too needy, and he fights within himself to not grab Gueira’s hand and stroke those tanned fingers down his own aching length. “Gueira, please, m’so close.” Meis lowers his head, face shrouded behind a darkened veil of blue black hues, cheeks tinting crimson, “make me come.”

He can barely register that he’s spoken out loud, dwindling thoughts racing through his mind at a mile a minute. Knows the instant Gueira’s eyes widen that he’s possibly said too much, that he’s let loose a monster better left chained up. And yet he finds himself straightening, ever so carefully teetering on the brink of something more. Something dangerous. Raises his hips, edges close to releasing Gueira’s length only to forcefully bring himself back down, the sound of slick skin upon skin resonating within the tiny space around them. And he’s close, so very close to tasting pent up bliss, mouth working around a strangled moan the longer he tries to hold out.

_‘Oh, we really should have done this sooner.’_

“Fuck . . .” Whisper soft, the feeling of succumbing to the pull and push of his wildest needs pushing him towards release. Gueira’s back collides with the mattress upon surrendering to Meis’s heated commands. Hands shaking, hungering to hold onto anything, rush of relief and excitement brought on by the man’s request alleviating the need to seek out another piece of his flesh to latch on to and kiss. 

Decorating his palm with his own saliva, Gueira brings his hand down to slowly rub against the tip of Meis’s cock. Fervent spells of deep, dry, raspy pants mirror each motion as eager fingers encase his length and stroke. Desire tugs and prods as his hand works up and down, a small twist of the wrist here and there eliciting throaty moans from the dark haired beauty.

With each stroke, every drawn out brush across Meis’s tip, the dark haired man continues to move in all the right directions, forcing Gueira to slowly lose control. Thigh muscles stiffen, all but locking into place, blending tan and porcelain skin together. They are a mess of arms and legs and the redhead wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sweat clings to them both, succulent delirium weaving a path straight through to their hearts. Gueira moans, eyes widening as the room all but turns white hot, sharpened claws scratching pleasure straight into his core.

“Meis, I . . .!”

“Come for me, Gueira.”

**

3am and the demons are calling, hounding him, jostling him awake with fevered thoughts and choked out sobs. Images from the night before circle through his mind, heated hands snaking through his hair, bodies pressed close enough to bruise, lips trailing countless memories into the pale canvas of his skin. Gueira had whispered his name like a prayer from between kiss swollen lips, red hued eyes burning the brightest of fires into his chest, smoldering and all powerful. They’d been lost within the moment, neither wanting to stop for fear of having time collapse around them—for fear of possibly awakening to a cold bed without a trace of the other ever having been by their side. And he’d taken all that he could get, giving out that much more despite his insecurities, clinging desperately to tanned skin, tucking his head beneath his companion’s chin the instant he felt release.

Gueira had been gentle, kind, everything the once third in command had hoped for and then some. Everything he assumed he’d never be allowed to experience, and yet the redhead had held him close, soothed fragile doubts into passion, lulled him into wanting nothing more than to be cherished, desired in every sense of the word. And, _oh_ , when Meis had yearned for heated friction, quickened bursts of pressure and drawn out moans, Gueira had been there to meet him half way. His own body flushing from exertion, the redhead had sunk his teeth into pale skin daring back the guttural noises that threatened to tear his throat apart, only realizing how hard he’d bitten upon tasting the smallest hint of blood. Meis had, within the moment, reached up to trace the careless mark with delicate fingers, poking and prodding only to lean back down and worry his own upon Gueira’s neck.

_‘You’re perfect for me.’_

It’s 3am and Meis wakes with a startled gasp, heart seizing, beating frantic music into the silence of their shared bedroom. He eyes the darkness with hesitation, opens and closes his mouth until he manages to get enough air into his lungs. Checks the clock beside the bed and mentally curses. His entire body aches, though pleasant, and he takes to stretching out within the sheets, instinctively curling into the warmth that cradles him from behind. 

He breathes a heavy sigh of relief upon feeling his companion’s arms tighten about his waist, messy mop of red hair falling haphazardly against his shoulder. Sweat beads upon his forehead, whether from overheating during the night or from his nightmare, he can’t quite say, nor does he want to find out. The feeling of calloused hands upon his skin draws the smallest of smiles across his face, tanned arms tucking him in tight against a semi muscular chest.

He cranes his neck, jostles ever so carefully until he’s facing the other, lines their bodies up just right with a quick toss of his leg around the redhead’s thigh.

Meis takes to watching Gueira with veiled intrigue, the way in which the redhead drools a river onto his pillow, eyelids fluttering a mile a minute as if lost within a dream, the softest of mewls making its way out from half pursed lips. He carefully adjusts himself within his companion’s hold, lets his arm stretch out to rest upon the redhead’s cheek, soothes every worry line from the shorter man’s face before tracing still kiss swollen lips with the pad of his thumb.

_‘I don’t want to hurt you, I hope you know that.’_

He takes another glance at the clock, maneuvers himself until his pillow rests against Gueira’s side, just enough weight to seem like a body should the other chance to wake up, and slowly eases out of bed. He doesn’t require much light, uses the screen from his phone to slowly walk around the room, gathering up a few things here and there until he feels as if he’s gotten all that he needs. His duffel bag lays heavy beside the door, aged and still smelling of whatever they’d chanced to smoke while on the run, and he tosses all that he’s gathered into the makeshift satchel, quickly tying the top shut.

_‘I’ll understand if you get upset with me, though.’_

Meis makes his way back towards the bed, careful steps falling soft upon aging carpet, leans over until blue black tendrils tickle his companion’s nose, teasing the softest of sighs from Gueira’s lips. The redhead reaches for him on instinct, jostles within the sheets as if searching for that much needed extra warmth, takes to snuggling the extra pillow close against his chest, instead.

“I love you.” Meis whispers each word into puffy red locks, runs delicate fingers through messed up bangs, wavers on the idea of kissing the other before quickly righting himself. Knows that, should he do anything more, he won’t have the courage to walk away, to open the door and welcome whatever he might find on the other side.

_‘Please wait for me.’_

Another careful check of the clock and he knows exactly how long he has before the redhead happens to wake up—exactly how long he has until the morning trains begin to work, or at least until he has a chance to call someone over for a half decent ride out of the city. He’s already made himself aware of how each line works, years of being on the run having given him not much else to do, half his life spent needing to find quick in’s and out’s only adding to his knowledge of a partially broken train system. And he’d be naïve to admit that he isn’t afraid of going back out there, of walking into the unknown after having every aspect of his former self stripped away in the blink of an eye.

Meis takes a hesitant breath, grabs his duffel bag and promptly opens and closes the door. 

He doesn’t think to turn on any lights, finds his way around the small apartment without difficulty, only smacking into the side of the kitchen table once after hearing a noise from down the hall. Eases his way back through the living room before pausing, gaze lingering on the only other closed door—Lio and Galo’s bedroom. Doubt pools within his gut, the sudden urge to crawl back into bed, hold Gueira close and thread his fingers through that unruly hair of his, creeping up the longer he waits—the longer he focuses on the softest hints of light easing its way from underneath the door. They’re awake, or at least he assumes them to be, Lio never having been one to waste power, and Galo being the light sleeper that he is. 

And it almost hurts knowing that he’s leaving them, that he’s made up his mind to find himself (what’s left of himself), that they aren’t necessarily in the picture for this part the ride.

_‘You’ll find your special someone, Meisies, and when you do . . . I want to be the first to meet them.’_ His mother’s voice bubbles up from the depths of his mind, memories of when he was younger playing out in tiny yet vivid bursts of color. And he knows he’s doing the right thing. He knows where he must go if he’s ever going to understand exactly who he’s become—what he wants—and how he should go about living his life without his flames. He takes one last lingering glance down the hall, eases his duffel bag onto his back, and quickly makes his way out into the morning light.

_‘I want you to meet him, too, mom. I wish you could.’_

Meis sets his sights on the road ahead, on traveling back home to Texas.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You don’t need me to be happy, you don’t . . . just realize it already.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for brief mentions of dubious consent/assault starting at "need a ride, gorgeous?"

_“You’re perfect for me.”_

He swears he hears Meis’s voice close to his ear sometime around midmorning, though he doesn’t have the heart to wake up, far too lost within a fever dream to even know if what he’s hearing is truly real. He pulls the sheets up and over his head, mumbles something incoherent under his breath, stretches out much like a cat only to curl back in upon himself with a loud snore. They’ve got the entire morning to themselves, crisp bedsheets beneath them, partially open window beckoning the oncoming morning sun and the scent of fresh rain. And although they both must get up at some point, the redhead can’t help but hope that his companion will take all the time in the world, because, for once, Gueira finds himself at peace.

_“I love you.”_

Gueira presses his face into the pillow, drool pooling out against his cheek in the process. He vividly recalls the warmth of being pressed together underneath the sheets, sweat and desperation pushing them forward, the need to hear each and every sound his companion could make bubbling forth the instant his name was sighed out from between kiss swollen lips. He’d easily fallen into Meis’s hold, legs entwining before snuggling close, the desire to feel every inch of the dark haired man against him still lingering as they both drifted in and out of sleep. With Meis curled against his side, soft breath tickling the hairs upon his arm, a profound sense of contentment had surged within his chest, hands coming up to weave between soft blue black locks, momentarily drawing Meis’s forehead to rest upon his shoulder. He’d realized, in that moment, just how much he didn’t want their night to end. The ebb and flow of another’s steady breath, the mere presence of his companion beside him, had helped Gueira maintain the most relaxing of nights he’d ever experienced in his entire life.

_“Please wait for me.”_

And there it is again, the sound of Meis’s voice swirling through his head. He grumbles into the pillowcase, shuffles around until his back hits thin air, blindly reaches out to cradle the closest thing beside him, plush and warm and welcoming against his skin.

_“I don’t want to hurt you.”_

A rock hits his gut. Whatever dream-like state he’d hoped to keep seemingly shatters with the distant sound of a door opening and closing.

“Meis . . .?”

His mouth tastes of chalk, Meis’s name foreign upon his lips, stagnate breath clogging his throat.

Gueira’s vision blurs, sleep laden eyes attempting to focus on the surrounding room though all he manages to see is a small ray of sunshine peeking through the blinds. He squints, casts another frantic look around only for his gaze to fall upon the door. He stretches his arms, elbows popping at the joints, back cracking, slowly settling into a sitting position upon the sheets. 

“Hey, Meis?”

The body pillow beside him flops around under his weight as he moves, hands coming up to smooth over disheveled red locks, legs cautiously coming to rest over the edge of the bed. He scrunches his nose, eyebrows knotting, lips pursing at the realization that he’s suddenly found himself very much alone.

_‘Couldn’t have gone far, he’ll be back in no time.’_

Familiar fragments of a life spent hiding and running from place to place flash within his mind in quick, vivid, uneven bursts the likes of which momentarily force him to pause. He works around the growing doubt budding within his chest, the notion that quite possibly Meis has abandoned him for some other calling, tickling the back of his mind. He shakes his head back and forth before grabbing for his shirt near the base of the bed.

Gueira catches sight of himself in the mirror, bursts of red hair in disarray, bruises blossoming upon his collar and neck, distinct hints of their night’s actions standing out against semi tanned skin. Feels the heat rising to his face, painting his cheeks a soft shade of crimson. 

_“Look at me, I want to hear you . . .”_

The lingering warmth of Meis’s lips upon his own, every mapped out route of blunt nails upon his skin, everything yet nothing makes sense and it’s those same emotions that traverse through his veins, blood running dangerously cold, gaze falling to stare at his hands. The same hands that had held Meis close, gently cradling him against his side—the same hands that had brought the dark haired man to his knees in heated pleasure.

He grits his teeth, makes to stand upon wobbly legs, ever so slowly easing himself back into his boxers before shuffling his way over to the door.

_‘Couldn’t have gone far . . .’_

“Meis?” His voice catches, uncertainty bristling near the back of his mind, pulse pounding hard. “You in here?” Turning on his heels, gaze drifting towards the patio that remains empty, a heavy sense of realization begins to take root in the pit of his stomach. He grapples with his phone, hands going clammy, fingers suddenly far too large to dial out his companion’s number.

**_“The number you have reached . . . .”_ **

**_“ . . . temporarily disconnected . . .”_ **

**_“The number you have reached . . . . please try again . . .”_ **

The dial tone falls flat against his ear. 

Gueira opens and closes his mouth, tongue heavy. Panic surges within his chest, gripping and spreading its tendrils straight through to his heart, clenching tight with a deadly chill that refuses to let go. There’s a knot forming within his throat, breath escaping him, lungs aching.

_‘This can’t be happening.’_

Hurried footsteps bring him to the opposite end of the hall, chest heaving, hands coming down to knock hard against Lio’s bedroom door.

“Lio?!” Gueira shouts, voice echoing off the walls, mirroring each frantic sound of his fists against the door. “LIO?!”

Had he done something wrong? Everything had finally moved in the direction he had hoped, in the direction he thought Meis had wanted . . . Had he crossed a line? Worry coils in his gut, burning and pressing under his sternum straight through to his lungs. Had he gone too far?He attempts to call Meis’s phone again, hears the same automated voice that only makes him pound harder. 

That damn voice.

Galo opens the door mid yawn, hair disheveled and boxers riding halfway down his hips. “Hey . . .?” He takes note of Gueira’s fists, tanned skin reddening from having knocked on the door too hard for too long, of how the once second in command bristles around the edges, eyes wide. Galo shifts, tone on edge, “What’s going on, man?”

“Is Lio up yet?” Gueira barely breathes between each word, chest seizing, eyes widening to saucers. His fingers twitch against his phone, the need to compose another text eating away at what little patience he has left.

**_Please call me. ASAP._ **

Simple enough, straight to the point, though Gueira’s heart nearly combusts with each press of his fingers to the keypad. The pinging of a message being sent appears upon his screen, all others still not having been read with no new notifications. He cringes.

Surely he’d done nothing wrong.

Galo sighs, slouches down against the doorframe while carefully watching the redhead from behind a veil of deep blue bangs, foot tapping upon the carpet mimicking Gueira’s frantic typing. The sound of sheets shuffling, sighing, force him to peer back inside, gaze softening before flicking back to the once second in command.

“Lio wasn’t feeling that great earlier, thought I’d let him sleep in a bit,” Galo pauses, eases his way out until he’s standing halfway in the hall, midmorning light barely visible from behind him. “Shouldn’t you still be asleep as well?” Another yawn passes over his lips, drawn out for emphasis to show that the blue haired man is still tired as well.

“Well fuck me, I didn’t even consider sleeping in.” Gueira doesn’t intend for his tone to sound so harsh, hints of venom oozing out to linger between them before he presses forward, “not like I’m feeling that great either at the moment, though.” He glances back down at his phone, at the darkened screen that threatens to devour him whole. “Can’t you wake him up, figured he’d know where Meis went.”

“What do you . . . you mean he isn’t here?” The firefighter questions, realization flashing across his face the instant Gueira goes back to looking at his phone. “I thought he was back in bed with you? You mean he . . . oh, hell, you aren’t lying, are you.” 

“Yea, well, he ain’t.” Gueira scoffs, “figured things were better, but s’pose I was wrong.” He fidgets in place, picks idly at the skin beneath his thumbnail. The redhead desperately wants to run right then and there but refrains from doing so.

The softest of voices makes its way past the door, shuffling of bedsheets and the padding of footsteps going back and forth following suit. “Texas? You’re already there?” Lio tries his best to sound awake, tone a mixture of confusion and exhaustion, eyes scanning the expanse of the bedroom only to settle upon the tiniest rays of light seeping past Galo’s shadow in the doorway. “You travel fast, _cowboy_.” The slightest hint of laughter makes its way into his voice, whatever response he’s received forcing a rare smile upon his face. He continues whisper soft so as not to gain any unwanted attention, “Just, please be safe.” He hangs up, places his phone back upon the nightstand, runs unsteady hands through off blonde locks.

“I know you’re both listening, Galo, Gueira.” And for once, Lio sounds utterly defeated. “Can practically see the fumes rising.”

Gueira raises his eyebrows, breath all but stopping as he makes eye contact with Galo. The gears of his mind slowly begin whirring, cogs twisting and turning, circuits squeaking as much needed information begins to move from cell to cell.

“Tex . . . as . . .?” The redhead mouths, carefully clearing his throat before asking another question to the man in the room. “Dallas?”

Silence, long and harsh, interrupted only by the pounding of Gueira’s heart, echoes throughout the hallway. Delicate webs of selfishness wrap around him, hissing threats of doubt as to why the dark haired man had even thought about leaving in the first place. Profound pain eats away at what little optimism he has left, nerves only easing upon hearing Lio’s voice carrying through their room and into his ears.

“Yes, Dallas.”

Gueira’s blood runs cold.

_‘The hell is he thinking?’_

He turns quick upon his heels, backtracking to what should have been his and Meis’s bedroom, slamming the door shut behind himself before hurriedly putting on socks and grabbing his backpack. Stuffing random pieces of clothing inside, he pays no mind to keeping them folded, rather he begins to take pride in how jumbled he can make everything appear. Without thought, he tears his phone charger from its plug in the wall, free hand stuffing his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans as he nearly jogs to hop into his boots and exit the apartment without a single goodbye to his other companions.

If Meis was going to assume he could leave him behind, he clearly didn’t have a solid understanding of just who Gueira was as a person. If he didn’t honestly think the redhead would seek him out, did he truly even know him? Did he understand just how much he meant to him?

_‘Difficult as always, aren’t you.’_

He attempts one last phone call, robotic voicemail tone ringing in his ear.

**

_“Need a ride, gorgeous?” A middle aged man sticks his head out from an opened pickup truck window, hand coming down to slap the side of his vehicle, lips quirking in a makeshift grin. “Can get ya wherever yer going, just gotta put some gas in her first.” He makes a show of pointing towards the passenger side door, whistles low and steady from the back of his throat._

**** _“Someone such as yourself shouldn’t be made to walk in this weather.”_

_Meis shrugs, kicks at the dirt with the back of a heel, weaves his hand through unruly blue black hair before pressing his lips together in the best attempt at a smirk he can give. “S’pose I could use one, yea.”_

_The man eases back on the clutch of his truck, revs the engine just for show, pats the seat beside himself before unlocking the door. “Well, get in.”_

_And, it might not be the prettiest of trucks on the inside, but it beats walking._

_“Where ya goin anyway?” The man gives Meis a sideways glance, quirks an eyebrow at how the other visibly stiffens under his gaze. “Don’t look like a runaway, not with that get up,” he pauses, casually flicks through a few radio stations. “Could give ya some money if ya are though, gotta help a fellow man out.”_

_“Don’t need money, just get me where I’m going and we’re done.” Meis responds. He takes note of the slight stench of alcohol filtering through the air around him, how the man’s eyes are barely glossed over, ever so slowly beginning to turn bloodshot around the edges. “Ya know, on second thought, think I gotta take a piss, first.”_

_They’ve yet to turn out of the gas station, idling in the parking lot, Meis’s hand glued to the door handle, and it only takes a second for the dark haired man to try and open the latch, the need to run working on overdrive._

_“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”_

_Meis wakes up half an hour later in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with heavy hands around his neck and the stench of alcohol muddling his senses. His head hurts, vision foggy, lungs close to bursting._

_The truck idles, radio blaring punk rock, windows rolled up tight._

_“Ya know, I’ve been doin some thinking, ain’t you one of those ex-terrorists that’ve been on the news lately? Bunch of scum that burned up an entire city or something?” The man’s tone dips low, hazy gaze lingering upon the curve of Meis’s chin before focusing on his sling. “I gotta wonder what something like you is really doin out here.” He bends over, breath ghosting across Meis’s face, eyebrows raising in question while he gives the young man the once over. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, the same smirk he’d harbored prior to picking the once third in command up gradually becoming apparent once more upon his face._

_The imprint of his hands stings._

_“Might have to show ya some good ole southern hospitality, break ya in before ya consider staying here.” The man snickers, calloused hands seeking out darkened bangs, fattened fingers attempting to brush aside the curtain of thick hair in hopes of seeing what Meis has to hide._

**** _“Pretty little thing such as yourself should be used to taking it from behind. Body like that, I’m sure you’ve been fucked dry plenty of times.” He leans back within his seat, gaze never leaving Meis’s face, hand coming down to rest against the young man’s thigh. “What’s one more cock, right?” His fingers work their way up, swiftly flicking over Meis’s zipper, palming into the fabric of his jeans._

_“C’mon gorgeous, lemme hear ya moan.” Chapped lips upon Meis’s neck are all it takes for him to see red._

_The truck speeds off in the opposite direction, slew of curses making their way out from a half open window. “Fucking brat!”_

_Meis grudgingly walks back the same path they’d traveled, pausing only to flip off a passerby that asks if he needs another ride. His head aches, chest heavy, legs sluggish, but he can’t afford another questionable run in, nor does he want to chance being thrown off what little course he’s hoped to set._

_His last ditch effort for the night appears in the form of a dingy old motel tucked back behind a half dilapidated gas station, one that wreaks of stale bread and pot. He checks in without second thought, eyeing the woman at the reception desk before slinking down the darkened hallway to his room. He’s half an hour from where he needs to be, tired beyond belief, and in desperate need of a decent meal._

_And for the third time in what feels like an eternity, he can’t help but curse the day he was born with such a body._

_He checks his phone the instant he enters the room, missed calls and texts bombarding him, all of which are from Gueira, though upon further inspection he concentrates on one specifically from Galo, the firefighter having sent the message an hour after Meis had left their apartment._

**_BurningMan: Lio wired you some extra cash if you need anything. I know you’re going through a lot right now, but don’t hesitate to ask us for help . . . you’re my friend, Lio’s family, we want nothing more than for you to feel welcome here. Take all the time you need, but please come back or Lio might throw a fit._ **

**_P.S._ **

**_Gueira might be coming after you, he seemed pretty shaken up. Hope nothing bad is going on between you two, can’t imagine either of you without the other, really._ **

_He pans down a few more messages, deletes half a dozen, listens to one particularly scathing voicemail before tossing his phone onto the bed. He’d known the redhead wouldn’t handle him leaving well, and yet he’d not hesitated upon walking out that door into the chilled morning air. In fact, he’d welcomed it. With far too many loose ends needing tied, he'd told himself that (should he ever cease being Burnish), the first thing he'd do would be to go home. He'd visit his mother, bring her the flowers she always loved, ask for her forgiveness in having run off without ever saying goodbye. Become the son she’d always hoped he would be._

_Tell her everything he'd wanted her to know before having received the only phone call from his father, the one that had sent him nearly over the edge._

******

_‘What the hell was I thinking?’_

Shards of glass splatter around his feet, glistening in the lowlight of a dingy motel bathroom, reflecting against upturned chunks of dust and ancient tile. He cringes, a slight hiss pressing past his lips the instant he feels a particularly jagged edge catch against his sole. The makings of a migraine bristle forth against his temple, forcing him to stagger, fingers clenching the hard ceramic of an aging sink the longer he tries to remain standing. 

For a split second he sees only darkness.

_‘Fuck!’_ He slams his fists down hard upon the counter, feels the vibrations slowly inching their way up through his veins to pound endlessly against his heart. _‘Fuck . . .’_ Meis heaves a sigh, wraps his arm about his waist, slowly eases himself down against the wall, head lolling with empty thoughts the likes of which send shudders down his spine. He can’t even muster up the strength to cry, let alone scream, though his body and mind ache with scars far worse than any Freeze Force bullet attack could ever bring about.

_‘All I do is tarnish everything.’_

The light above flickers, shadows bouncing off the walls in oblong shapes that cling to his legs. He runs his fingers through his bangs and grits his teeth, gathers himself before slowly standing up once more. The balls of his feet hurt, ankles swelling after having walked for hell knows how long, and the mere thought of spending a night in such a place after having come so far leaves a nasty taste within his mouth.

_‘Not like you’ve given yourself any other option, though.’_

He wants to scream, to cry and curse. No sound comes out. Tears threaten to blur his vision, prickling and fierce with heat, he lets them fall warm and harsh upon his cheeks, the makings of a strangled gasp building within his throat. He’s once again gone and fucked his entire world up despite having felt so very much alive the night before. He’s once again found himself alone.

His chest hurts.

He staggers forward until his hips hit the cool ceramic of the sink, until he’s barely able to turn the cold water on, the pit pattering sound of fattened droplets echoing off the walls, deafening.

He’s in no way ready for the image that greets him upon glancing into the half broken mirror. 

Dried blood masks a good portion of his lower lip where he’d bit down too hard, skin a bright shade of pink from irritation, bruise marks forming hot and heated upon his cheek coloring pale skin a dangerous shade of purplish blue. Everything aches, the need to lay down overpowering the nagging grumbling of his stomach and the growing urge to throw up food he’s yet to eat. Sure, he’d show the man all that he could offer, but it wasn’t as if he’d gotten away without seeing his fair share of regret, either.

Too little, too slow, he’d really lost his advantage without his flames. 

He takes to pacing the room, every so often glancing at his phone, mentally cursing not having blocked Gueira’s number prior to leaving. In hindsight, Galo had warned of the redhead’s possible need to follow and find him, though he hadn’t really expected his companion’s actions to be so soon let alone as desperate as they were becoming. A small part of his dangerously anxious mind wants the redhead to stay in Promepolis, to find a happy life for himself, to actually push forward without him in the picture—yet he knows the longer he sits around, the closer his companion will get to finding him.

_‘You don’t need me to be happy, you don’t . . . just realize it already.’_

He chucks his phone back into his satchel, settles for turning the television on, weekly news blaring in the background for noise, a few familiar faces popping up on screen the longer he manages to stay focused. They’re talking about Kray Foresight, Promepolis burning, the “ex-terrorists” that somehow managed to make it off the hook without anyone batting an eyelash in their direction. Lio’s image flashes across the screen, bold letters declaring the young man as being “innocent”, though the way in which the newsman speaks, tone bordering hushed disappointment, says otherwise. It’ll take years for those living in the city to stop fearing what they’d once considered as enigmas, to even remotely begin to treat past Burnish as citizens, and Meis can’t help but wonder if things will ever go back to how they were prior to gaining their flames.

**_“Former Governor Kray Foresight speaks out as to what happened, hear his side of the story later tonight. Now for the weekly weather check . . .”_ **

Another quick glance at his phone shows one more message from Lio, the former Mad Burnish leader wanting to know if he’d made it safely to his destination—if he’s coming back even though Meis swears the young man already knows his answer. He can’t help but smile, quickly pushing back loose bangs from his eye before attempting to write out what he hopes is the proper response.

He’ll visit his mother in the morning, having already mapped out the streets he’ll need to take—the quickest and safest route he can use without having to worry about someone questioning his motifs. He sighs, kicks his shoes off, reclines back upon the sagging, uncomfortable bed, and lets his thoughts take over to the sound of some comedy show beginning on the TV.

When he wakes it’s to static and hints of morning sun filtering through the half parted curtains of his motel room. His arm hurts, sling having hitched up against his wound, and his back cracks the second he chances to roll over, examining the nearby clock for a time. Two more messages and a voicemail, all from Galo. Leave it to his newfound family to keep him feeling like he belongs.

Meis checks out of the motel, gathers what little items he’s brought with him, and makes his way down the only road leading into the city.

**

Metal bumps and clangs together as the line of freight cars sail down what feels like a never ending series of steel tracks. Darkness bleeds into honey, miniature beams of light seeping through the cracks in the sliding doors, partially illuminating the figure of a man propped up against shipping boxes and luggage. 

Gueira cracks one eye open, instinctively jerking his head away from the wall upon feeling the impact of one particularly nasty speed bump. He grumbles under his breath, pops his back and neck, twists and turns until every inch of his body feels brand new, relaxed even.A heavy sigh presses past his lips, the urge to up and run taking over his waking thoughts the longer he remains tucked away within the train’s cargo. The squeaking and grinding of wheels and gears join the symphony of his sighs and his bones cracking as he stretches, every ounce of his being suddenly on high alert.

Turning on his phone, he waits to see if any messages appear, any signs of Meis having acknowledged him or his need to be there for the other. Of course, in true Meis fashion, no responses appeared. There were no voicemails either. 

"Ass."

His fingers dance across the keypad, quickly composing another message, one that was less harsh than his previous had been. As he types, his hands and arms shake with pent up nerves, chest tightening upon the thought of possibly being left alone with his own devices. The urge to puke pulls him further away from typing, arms and limbs scrambling, fingers desperately pulling open the sliding doors of the freight car just enough to feel the cool breeze hitting his face. He fights back the bile scaling its way up from an empty stomach, grits his teeth against the taste of acid building within the back of his throat. He cannot, under any circumstances, allow Meis to just go, not without talking to him first. Not without trying to understand what makes the dark haired man tick. 

Gueira wants, no needs, to believe he’s worth much more than a romp in the sheets. And he clings to the feeling of Meis’s arms around him, lips traversing the imperfect canvas of his skin, sweetened words chasing away his innermost insecurities. He clings to his memories of the past night they shared alone within their tiny apartment bedroom, heat and desperation pushing and pulling them together and apart. His veins burn, nerves twitching with thoughts of being nothing more than a fling, of not being loved by the one man he’s always admired, and cherished.

He wretches, attempts to swallow much needed oxygen, falls back upon his heels only to lay flat against the floor. His stomach churns, pain gnawing away at his insides, relentless.

**_I just want to know you are okay._ **

He hits send, pockets his phone.

Worry and self-doubt accompany him the last hour of his trip, high strung emotions barely doing anything to help him sneak off the car as the train eases into the freight yard. He laces his arms through flimsy backpack straps, securing it against himself before creeping the door further open, glancing left and then right. Not that it was a new event, people hitching rides, but had he not been branded a "terrorist" not too long ago, he might have been more confident in his ability to go unnoticed. Voices calling to each other from his left signal the need to head to the right and follow the length of the train until he can find signs and a sidewalk.

Fort Worth.

And, although it’s not Dallas, he’s certain he can find a way to the other city without hindrance. He’d once known his way around the entire state, having ended up there prior to gaining his flames, but his memory gradually begins to fail him as he becomes overwhelmed by the sounds of cars zooming by, headlights flashing.

_‘Deep breaths, concentrate, not everyone is out to get you anymore.’_

Prying eyes and hushed remarks from people he passes force the need to simply keep his head down, eyes downcast, gaze flicking left and right around every corner for signs of transportation. He’s halfway down an alleyway when an aging pickup truck with more than enough space upon its bed comes into focus.The smallest of decals upon the side boasts a farm thriving in none other than Dallas, Texas.

Gueira swallows his pride, attempts to work up the courage to finally give in and ask someone for help, a small feat he’d have been less than inclined to do should he have still possessed his flames.Much to his surprise, the man is rather nice and agrees to give him a ride.

And, he can’t help but wonder if luck truly is on his side, for once.

He composes another message while laying upon freshly piled hay, mind wandering despite wanting to remain calm. He’s so close, too close, to hopefully finding Meis, yet so very far from knowing if his companion will even want to speak with him, much less return to Promepolis. He curses under his breath, props his elbows up against the edge of the truck bed, lets the wind blow through his hair in hopes of clearing his mind.

**_I need you right now, Meis._ **

The need to be with him, to feel his arms around him and breathe in every ounce of warmth Meis has to offer, proved far stronger than Gueira had ever truly begun to realize. Each mile soon becomes what he hopes to be less distance between them, less effort to put together all the pieces of himself Meis had unknowingly taken with him the moment he walked out that door. Things he could and should have said, things he will say upon finding his companion once more, everything and nothing all jumbles together into one giant cloud that threatens to tear him apart should he remain on his own for much longer.

Gueira sighs, feels the weight of his phone inside his back pocket, hesitantly glances off into the distance as the truck slowly begins to descend upon its destination.

_‘Hope you’re ready for me, Dallas.’_

**

“Hey, Lu, how far out is he?”

Meis tucks his phone close to his ear, listens for the scientist’s laughter while typing away at a far off keyboard. He’s halfway into Dallas searching for a familiar floral shop when Lucia finally happens to respond, tone damn near scrutinizing (he can practically see her comedic expression through the phone, eyebrows perked with a wicked smirk plastered upon her face).

“Give or take thirty minutes, but it seems he’s in the opposite direction, the ding dong.” She pauses only for Meis to hear more typing, hysterical giggles bubbling up the longer he keeps her on the line. “Probably misread a sign somewhere or something, but he ain’t too far off from where you’re at, cowboy. Bet he shit himself when he noticed, too.” Lucia has to strain in order to hear Meis’s soft intake of breath.

“Mind putting Boss on the line? I know he’s listening, and don’t tell me he’s not.” Meis can’t help but snicker at the image of a puppy flashing upon his screen with Lucia’s bold handwriting underneath, quickly types back his own response, waits to hear Lio’s calming tone. He passes a few storefronts, ducks in and out of little corridors in hopes of avoiding as many people as possible if only to not be recognized (as if anyone in town would still remember him after nearly 10 years, though the thought still plagues him the longer he remains within city walls). 

Everything yet nothing has changed, even the scent of fresh bread still lingers, though he doubts it’s from the same bakery he’d used to visit with his mother.

The click of the phone being passed to someone else, elongated sigh escaping from the newcomer’s lips before they happen to speak, breaks him from his trance. And Meis can already tell that Lio is upset, worried that the once third in command would up and run so easily without telling anyone.

“Next time at least warn us before you up and jump states. Granted it’s not hard to send money, but . . . a little notice would have been nice.” There’s a shuffling from Lio’s end, a few unheard words passing between him and what sounds like Galo before his attention is brought back to the conversation at hand. “Have you at least seen her yet?” At this his tone wavers and Meis can hear his hands shaking against the phone, knows that the subject of any of their families has always been a tough spot to speak upon.

Meis sighs, pushes his phone up closer to his ear before whispering in response, “I didn’t want you to stop me, didn’t want to see you disappointed, again.” He sidesteps around what appears to be dog shit and a half eaten burrito before making his way towards the street he remembers the floral shop being on. “And no, I’m just looking for something to bring her, now. Can’t have her only son showing up without a present. Oh, and Boss,” he sighs into the speaker, wishes he could reach right in and pull the smaller man out to walk beside him. “Thank you, for everything.”

The receiver falls silent.

He takes a few more steps, casts a wayward glance down the street, pockets his phone and keeps moving forward. The smell of fresh picked flowers hits his nose halfway down the road, a small dainty shop coming into focus, brilliant displays of colorful vases and miniature gardens lining the space just outside its doors.

He remembers the shop fondly from his younger years, the elderly woman that had owned it at the time always having given him free daisies whenever he’d stop by with his mother. The way the young woman would light up upon seeing her son carrying the small bulbs without a care in the world, lips curling into a dainty smile, laugh lines forming upon her face the instant he’d turn around to wave at her, never failed to freeze time. 

_“What’s that you have their, Meisies?”_

_“Daisies!”_

_“Are those for me?”_

_“No, momma, they’re mine! Because I’m your daisy, remember?”_

A small sign waves him forward, distant memories evaporating from his mind to the sound of chimes ringing.

“Welcome!”

Millions of pots and plants greet him the instant he steps foot within the store’s doorway, a woman’s voice bubbling up from somewhere amidst a sea of foliage. He looks around, sets his sight on his mother’s favorite, Camellia, lining the far wall in an array of brightly adorned vases spaced out between lilies and his own personal favorite, daisies.

_“Pick out a vase for momma, won’t you Meisies?” She’d smiled all bright eyes and pink cheeks in his direction, hands outstretched to welcome whatever choice he’d make into her arms. “We’ll take whatever you want home with us.”_

The memory of her kneeling beside a mound of freshly plucked tulips hits him hard, overpowering scents from surrounding displays throwing him off guard. He’s met with a concerned frown, pleasantly delicate features coming into focus, a young woman reaching out her hand as if to help him stay upright.

“You okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost or something.” She hovers just outside his line of sight, tone soft, hand grasping his shoulder for balance.

“I’m . . . fine.” It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, voice coming out a hesitant whisper. “Just, brings back memories.” His heart pounds deep within his chest, frantic, erratic thumps making his breath weak. If only he’d thought twice about coming inside.

“You sure?” She doesn’t seem convinced, fingers refusing to let go of his shoulder, expression shifting to one he can’t quite read. She watches him nod, how he seems to teeter back and forth before catching his bearings. “Well, if you say so . . . but, let me know if you need help with anything, all right? I’ll leave ya be for a bit.” Her hand slips from its hold as if burned. “Oh, we do have a sale going on today, dozen roses or your choice for $5, have to celebrate something every so often.” She flashes him a quick smile before hurrying off to the register to help another customer.

His phone buzzes with a single text coming through from Lucia.

**_Mad Scientist: Guess who just popped up in your neck of the woods, cowboy? Might want to brace yourself for a lost puppy, cause he’s on his way!_ **

“Miss, the Camellia you have over there . . . how much are they?” Meis pockets his phone, takes a gulp of air and prays to whatever gods might be watching that the redhead doesn’t find him before he’s ready to be found.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing roleplay between myself and the lovely Caleesa that has managed to escape into a monster of words that neither of us saw coming . . . .  
> If we've missed anything, please let us know!!
> 
> Come scream with us on tumblr and twitter  
> Dreua: @dreua tumblr, @mirroredhell twitter  
> Caleesa: @fireofthousands tumblr


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